


save me, i'm lost

by shibyn



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Blood, Gen, Ghost!AU, Memory Loss, Paranormal, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-07-29 12:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7685236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shibyn/pseuds/shibyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First, Chrom begins seeing things that aren't there, something is mysteriously messing with his things, and now he's hearing voices? He thinks he's growing delirious because of all the battles, but things begin to make more sense when he meets Robin, an amnesiac ghost. He's sure the rest of the Shepherds think he's loosing his mind, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. nowhere (better than somewhere)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this story for months and its still not finished;; god
> 
> This story has three chapters: the first is Chrom's POV, next Robin's, and the final is overall. I tried to make it so these could be stand alone but I don't think it worked to well;; things tend to become more understandable when you keep reading i hope;; 
> 
> the chapters are also set up so it just shows snippets of things happening over a long span of time! Hopefully that isn't too confusing--
> 
> Feel free to ask me if you don't understand something! Enjoy!

 Strangely, the face of the person gurgling blood in front doesn't register in Chrom's mind as he slips his sword out of their gut. 

 Warm blood splatters across Chrom's face. They slump to the ground silently, unmoving after the convulsing subsides. Chrom stares blankly at the person, eyes both seeing and not. He raises his view to the rest of the field, once golden with the turn of the season, now red and littered with bodies. He easily spots Lissa kneeling by some familiar forms, the Mend Staff clutched in her hands. 

 He glances around for a final time, checking once again that there were no more barbarians left. The battle had been long and the enemies' reinforcements just kept coming and coming. He flicks his sword to the side, blood spraying off in an arc. How long had they fought? It must have been more than an hour-- his vision is blurring around the edges and he can't really see in focus anymore. His arm aches from a deep gash someone had done a while back. It stopped bleeding, but it still throbbed. 

 He finds a handful of other minor wounds as he stands there. There's a few in his side, along his thigh, his arm. He might've hyperextended a muscle in his leg-- it buckles when he puts too much weight on it. He doesn't really feel them-- he feels overall just numb. There's motion in the corner of his eye, and still battle-set, his muscles lock up, ready to move if needed. Frederick pauses, seemingly have noticed Chrom tense up. He doesn't move for a moment, but continues his stride to Chrom's side, most likely to report.

 Chrom takes in a breath (wheezing, wavering-- how long has it been since a battle's been _this_ exhausting?) and gathers his wits.

 He is a prince and the captain of the Shepherds. They cannot see him falter, especially since they need him right now.

 "Milord," Frederick starts, pausing a respectful distance away from him. "Vaike, Stahl, and Sully retain severe injuries. Lady Lissa is attending their injuries, but the Staff may not last any longer if we are ambushed again. There are a number of others who are injured as well, but we do not have fatal loses yet..."

 He continues on, giving different status updates that frankly end up blurring into a monotone noise in Chrom's ears. (He'll just have someone repeat it to him when his mind clears up.) He blinks harshly a few times, trying to get his vision to clear. Frederick's armor bears a number of scuffs and heavy divots, most likely from when he had to take hits rather than par them. The pace of Frederick's reports slows, and Chrom looks up to notice that Frederick's finally realized that he's not actually hearing the report and the ugly wound on his arm.

 "Milord! We need to get you to Lady Lissa--"

 "No, Frederick. It's fine. I'm sure there's more people who need her aid more desperately than I," Chrom counters smoothly, not bothering to mention that he's set on the idea he's going to stand there until Lissa comes by because he's sure his leg will give if he moves.

 Frederick gives him a look that was obviously not convinced, so Chrom grins back. "It'll be fine. We should probably--"

 A flash of white cross the peripheral of his vision. He cuts off abruptly, jerking to see a head of white hair wandering about. Near his comrades.  _Near his comrades._

 No one in the Shepherds has white hair.

 Chrom staggers forward, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword. Why are none of them  _noticing?_ There's a stranger, a _barbarian_ in the ranks--

 But then, it's gone. There's no more white.

 "Milord? Milord, what's wrong?" Frederick asks, glancing around in alarm to see what had panicked Chrom so. Chrom blinks a couple of times, glancing back over the ranks. A few of them noticed and looked at him with concern or confusion, but he couldn't see the white hair again. But there was  _something._ There can't be a blotch of white and it suddenly vanish--

  _I'm growing delirious,_ he thinks, pushing down the rise of panic in the back of his mind.

 "It's nothing," Chrom says, maybe telling himself or Frederick, sheathing his sword. His hand lingers at the hilt, tension still in his shoulders. The person is gone, or they might have not existed at all. He's grew use to there being stragglers, that's all. "Mistook something for something else. Don't worry about it."

 

\--

 

 "Has anyone been entering my room without my knowing?"

 Chrom's exhausted. He's been caught up with mapping and deciding strategies for the next battle, not to mention he's got other duties to attend to, both as prince and as commander of Shepherds. Then there's the sparring he's roped into when he really _should_ be working on strategies. He's just about dead tired, but he doesn't let it show around anyone. 

 Frederick raises an eyebrow at the question. "Milord? No one has permission to enter without your allowance."

 Somewhere nearby, Vaike laughs boisterously and nearly breaks the table with how hard he's slamming his hand on it. There's a brief scolding from Maribelle, but aside from that, the mess hall is buzzing with the norm of conversations. They had gotten back from some border skirmishes a few days prior and everything seemed to be settling back into how they normally are: loud, but peaceful.

 Chrom scrubs a hand over his eye, feebly hoping it'll make him more awake. "Someone is. I'll leave for a while and return to see the maps I had rolled up unrolled and my pens and quills strewn out on my desk."

 Frederick's eyes widen in alarm for a moment until Chrom quickly adds, "They haven't changed any of the maps or plans that I've made. I just need to know what's doing it so I don't lose anything."

 "Could it be an assassin, milord?" Frederick suggests quietly, voice dropping low in apprehension. No one here would react well at the thought of an assassin. Whether it be for himself or Emmeryn, the idea of it made Chrom's stomach roil. He glances to where Lissa was speaking with Sumia a few paces away. She seems to have taken no notice to their conversation. Good. Lissa did  _not_ need the idea that there might be someone lurking around, a weapon with either his, hers, or Emm's name on it. If it were to be just that-- there would be little mercy when dealing with them. 

 "If it is, they haven't been doing a good job at making themselves unnoticed," Chrom jokes instead. Frederick doesn't seem to like the joke much at all.

 "Should we station someone to keep watch?" Frederick suggests. He looks about the mess hall, as if mentally picking through them to see who would be the best to do the job. His nose crinkles ever so slightly-- there must be very little people who fits the requirements in his mind. Chrom lets out a snort of a laugh, putting a reassuring hand on Frederick's arm.

 "It's fine. I doubt anyone here would do such a thing. I'm coming to think I'm getting a bit forgetful," Chrom says. 

 

\--

 

 It's night. Maybe early morning? Chrom doesn't have a clue, but he does know that he needs a good tactician soon or he's going to die from no rest. 

 The next battle might have a muddy terrain, seeing the amount of erosion and a forecast of rain towards the border of Ylisse. There's no telling where the attack will come from, and if they happen to be on particularly unstable ground-- He has to get the soldiers that adapt best and attack well to go first and then the rest can come in, mainly as support. He's paired the people he thinks will be able to traverse safely and to their advantage, but the question is _who..._

 Chrom throws himself back in the chair, arms stretched over his head, popping them. His eyes are beginning to strain and his back aches from being hunched over so long. Maybe he should take a rest (when _was_ the last time he had a proper rest?)-- but they only have a few days and everyone needs to be _ready_ \--

 "You shouldn't pair those two up."

 Chrom lets out a screech he would love to say didn't come from him.

 He jerks back, basically putting his full weight in the wrong direction. The chair tips and he lands on the ground with a heavy crash. He flips up onto his knee, about to dive for cover. Falchion's near his bedside-- depending on where the intruder is, he can--

 He pauses. There's no one else in the room besides him.

 "Who spoke?" He demands, wishing his voice didn't waver as much as he thought it did.

 It's dead silent. Chrom subconsciously picks up a letter opener, knowing he can still defend himself if there was the need. He waits quietly, eyes darting about the small room. There are no movements outside of his tent, and if there is someone inside with him, they haven't made a move.

 His grip tightens on the letter opener as he stands. He steps forward silently, warily looking around for anything he didn't recognize. 

 When he's near Falchion, he grabs it without a second thought and raises it. He's checked all the places someone would be able to hide, but-- nothing. There's _nothing._  There _had_ to be someone here. They couldn't have left with him watching and-- who would've spoken if no one was _there_?

 Chrom grumbles aloud, stalking back to the table with maps sprawled across it. He uprights the chair and drops into it without a hint of grace, hunching over the plans once again. His grip is still tight on Falchion as he glances over everything.

 As much as he doesn't want to, he reviews the pairs and finds that he probably should split one of them up instead.

 

\--

 

The day is bright when they visit the Ylisstol castle.

 Lissa is practically _bouncing_ in excitement, saying something about _it's been so long! We really need to visit more often, I'm sure Emm gets lonely!_  Her energy is radiating off her, and it's quite frankly infectious. Frederick does nothing to calm her down, and even he seems mildly mirthful. Chrom chuckles in amusement when he looks at them.

 The castle is, of course, just as grand as he remembers it. The ceiling seems unreachable as it towers above them, great arches and pillars everywhere. Chrom nods to the palace guards as he passes them, and they bow and welcome him as if he only left for a night.

 They enter the throne room where they were told Emmeryn would be waiting. It's majestically huge-- a second story for viewing and a grand set of stairs leading to the throne. He remembers running up and down these halls with Lissa when they were younger, not a care or thought in the world.

 Emmeryn smiles when she notices their approach. Lissa squeals and hurries up the flight of stairs, throwing her arms around her in the lieu of a hello. Chrom snorts fondly at her antics as he approaches at a much slower pace. Once Lissa releases Emmeryn from a rib crushing hug, Chrom hugs her gently and says, "It's good to see you again, Emm."

 "Same to you, Chrom," Emmeryn greets, resting a hand on his shoulder when he pulls away. "I hope you've been faring well?"

 Chrom nods. "We've just returned from another skirmish with Plegian barbarians and have been settling back into the normal swing of things. We need to do _something_ soon, or I'm afraid they'll begin raiding more and more towns, sis." He says bluntly. He doesn't _mean_ to spoil the mood of them meeting for the first time in a while, but it _is_ the main purpose of their coming. 

 Emmeryn frowns at him. "You know we can't do anything about it. I will not accept waging war against Plegia over a few barbarians. They act on their own and do not reflect that of Plegia, regardless if they originate from there," she says simply. Her voice is finalizing, but Chrom's always had ways he can maneuver his opinion into consideration.

 Before Chrom can even respond, Lissa pops in with her input: "We shouldn't be talking about this right now! Emm, I gotta show you something I found when we were near Themis! That's where Maribelle is from, you know!"

 Both of them seem marginally grateful for the interruption. Lissa gleefully pulls Emmeryn away, beaming about the things she's picked up on during their trips. Frederick disappears to do whatever stewards do-- leaving Chrom alone for the time being.

 Chrom ventures off not soon later, retracing old steps down hallways he once ran down as a child. He feels nostalgic as he can remember the antics he did so long ago. He even remembers the tiny Lissa who would trot around with him, oo-ing and ahh-ing at everything he did, as if he were the coolest person around. She'd probably hit him soundly with the Healing Staff if he ever brought it up.

 He ends up strolling in a pathway near the gardens, just outside a castle wing. The hedges are in nearly identical condition from what he remembers. The sky is clear for what seems like forever, birds chirping nearby as a white noise. It's quiet aside from that, just him and--

 He comes to a complete halt, his hand flying to Falchion's hilt. A few paces away, there's someone else among the garden bushes, doting about. Chrom doesn't recognize them from _any_ of the palace staff (and he can't think of any new recruits), and the white hair pulls him to the battlefield weeks ago when there was a stranger amongst their ranks. 

  _Who is that?_

 So many scenarios flash through his mind, but the most common one involves them being an assassin. An assassin for him? _Or for Emmeryn?_ His throat tightens and he pulls Falchion free of its sheath without hesitation. 

 "Halt! State who you are, and your business!" Chrom calls, promptly making the white-haired man leap in start. The man looks back warily, before looking side to side as if Chrom was calling out to someone else.

 He was wearing… particular clothing. The cloak he had was a deep purple and looked too heavy to be suitable _or_ comfortable in this weather. Neither did he wear shoes, which was a dumb idea near a rose bush.

 The man didn't say anything. His face paled to the color of paper, yet he apparently didn't feel the need to respond. Chrom ground his teeth and began taking long strides to the man. "Are you going to answer me? I will remove you from here if I need to."

 The man's eyes dart in panic as he steps back towards the bushes, "I, um-- wait--"

 Chrom stops just a few paces away, still towering over the other. Now that he was closer, he could really see the apprehension on the man's face. He also seemed… _translucent_ , if that was the right word to describe him. His skin was paler than any other he's seen, unnatural to the point that it couldn't just be fear doing that. 

 "Well?" Chrom starts, narrowing his eyes. First he infiltrates the Shepherds, and now he's out for the Exalt? And he has the _gall_ to remain here. Is this man an _idiot?_ _If I have solid proof, I'm going to--_

 "It's, um, hard to explain?" He begins weakly, speaking in a way that he sounds unsure of his own words. The man steps back once more, his cloak brushing against the branches of the thorn bush. He winces. 

 "Bull. You _will_ explain yourself, right now." Chrom says. He can tell he's being insufferable, but there is something _off_ with this guy and he does _not_ like it. Whatever it is.

 His mouth opens just as a voice he's all too familiar with calls out. "Chrom! Who are you talking to? Are the flowers _that_ interesting to you?" Lissa teases, leaning over the railings so much that she might teeter over. Chrom blinks and turns to her, baffled at her nonchalant-ness. Does she not _see_ the man in front of him? She can't possibly be joking. She should be able to directly look at this man-- she _is_ looking directly at him, and yet-- "Emmeryn said that we might as well stay and eat since she thinks your meeting with her might take the rest of the day."

 There's a pause that stretches for a moment too long, and he only realizes it when Lissa tilts her head, a frown growing on her face. Chrom's throat suddenly feels dry as he chuckles for her, "Alright, I'm going to head that way in a moment."

 "Have fun staring at roses!" Lissa calls out brightly, hurrying off down the halls. Her shoes click against the floors, growing more and more distant. The second it's a mere distant echo, Chrom whirls on the guy.

 " _What_ did she mean by that? She _couldn't see you?_ " He hisses, his gloves creaking from strain against Falchion's hilt. 

 The guy somehow manages to hold his glare despite how much his hands shake. He swallows thickly. "Um, about that… You… Are the only one who can see me? I think?" 

 " _The only one who can see you?_  From what? A mess up of a spell?" Chrom glowers, a migraine blooming just behind his eyes. This is getting out of hand, it's too _ridiculous._ He wants  _answers_ , not for this-- this man to play a joke on him. In a second, he has his blade leveled to the guy's neck. "Are you trying to kill the Exalt?"

 There's a pregnant pause before the guy's eyes widen comically. He splutters, raising his hands in a non-harmful way. "No! I can't, even if wanted to! Ah, I might as well just _show_ you--"

 The guy reaches out to Falchions blade and Chrom jerks it away, but he can't exactly _not_  see the man's fingers pass right through the steel of the blade. 

 "I'm kind of _dead_ ," the man starts, "so if I even _had_ an ill-intention towards the Exalt, I couldn't do anything about it."

 

\--

 

At first, Chrom nearly approaches Miriel to see if she knows anything about exorcism. He decides against it in the end.

 He is quiet. Chrom rarely notices him floating around the mess hall, observing the rambunctiousness of Vaike or the endless pit of a stomach Stahl has. He always does this without an expression on his face, so Chrom can't tell if he's envious of the living or just genuinely curious. (Chrom was worried that he was going to possess someone, but when days passed and no one was starkly different, he realized there was nothing to worry about.) 

 He only asks small questions when there's no one paying attention to Chrom, and that time is little to non-existent. More often than not, Chrom just sees him wandering in the corner of his eyes.

 He doesn't have a name. That was one of the first things he told Chrom; he doesn't know who he is and where he is from. 

 Chrom doesn't know what to _do_ about him. He's just a ghost literally wandering around-- A _ghost_ , for gods sake. He can't exactly go around and announce  _I've found the ghost of someone's loved one. Anyone care to claim him?_  He only sticks around because Chrom seems to be the only one who can see him, but that's it. As ridiculous as it is, Chrom pities him, because what else is he suppose to _do?_ Pat him on the back, send him off? Just how stir crazy is this man, being unwillingly isolated as a ghost?

 When Frederick comes to him and informs him of another group of barbarians overtaking a border village, Chrom wonders what he's going to do. 

 "Are you sure? Didn't we make sure there was a guard set up in that village?" he begins, rubbing his temple. He sits heavily at a table as Frederick remains standing, as stern as ever.

 "Yes. The barbarians, however, are reported to have overpowered the guards," he reports crisply. From the stiffness in his posture, Chrom can only guess that Frederick thinks that this is possibly his own fault, for not advising someone with more qualifications to remain posted there.

 "Do you know if any of the villagers have been harmed?" Chrom asks, spotting the ghost floating casually into his line of sight. The white-haired man looks curious for the most part, listening in and peering at Frederick. 

 The other pauses, a grim expression crossing his face. "The reports did not say. It was from a neighboring town. There is no knowledge of what is happening within the village. That is why it is best we should move."

 Chrom sighs and stands, calling out for everyone's attention. He tells them of the situation, answers a few questions, and dismisses everyone to get ready to leave, feeling deja vu from not even a week prior. A few complain-- they had just gotten back already, hadn't they? Their complains weren't actually genuine, but Chrom knew they all wanted to stay in a place longer than a week for once. Frederick nods knowingly to him as he sits back down, and moves to go pack himself. Chrom sits for a moment longer, watching as everyone leaves.

 The garrison is quiet once it's entirely cleared out. The white-haired ghost gently lands on his feet, taking an once-over of the empty place. 

 "Are you not leaving?" he asks absently, not exactly curious about him staying behind. Chrom looks towards him, his eyebrow quirking in puzzlement. 

 "I will. I just, need to think. For a bit," he says, leaning back in his chair in a way that would have the house-nobles aghast. The ghost makes a noise of understanding and sits silently next to him (he isn't fazing through the chair-- does he know how to control it?). 

 He doesn't say a word, and Chrom is grateful for it.

 

\--

 

It's midnight when they decide to take a rest from traveling-- everyone seems to need it, and Chrom really needs time to work on the strategies and tactics. 

 " _Chrooom,_ " Lissa whines, rubbing sleepily at her eyes. They had just finished eating game meat and other things they brought along (courtesy of Frederick). Everyone was now trudging to their tents, both full from the meal and dreading the battle for tomorrow. "Promise me you'll get some sleep tonight?"

 Chrom blinks to her, then forces a chuckle. "Of course I will. There's no need to tell me that." 

 (Then again, he never really _listens…_ )

 Lissa pouts, pushing his arm in a non-agressive way, "I'm _going_ to hit you if I wake up later and see that your tent light is still on. I will. _Don't_ make me, I will hit you for making me get up out of bed-- Stop _laughing_ , Chrom-- I really will!" She shrieks, smacking his arm as his laughter only grows louder and louder.

 Thankfully, Maribelle comes by and whisks Lissa away, talking about how she needs rest of her own. Lissa shoots a particularly venomous look over her shoulder to him, however, which only succeeds in making him snort. 

 The white-haired ghost floats by, watching the two healers flitter away. He had been absent throughout the duration of the meal, off doing whatever a ghost could possibly do. He lands mutely next to the prince after Lissa and Maribelle disappear around a corner. "What does she mean by that? Do you have insomnia?" he asks, arms burrowed in his cloak. By doing that, he looks cold, but Chrom's pretty sure ghosts don't feel temperature. Then again, all he  _knows_ about ghosts are from story books-- hell, maybe the dead are susceptible to temperature change.

 "No-- she's exaggerating, really. I just normally spend the night planning out the tactics for our next battle. There's been more than one time she's found me in the dead of night still working on them," Chrom snorts, waving a dismissive hand. He begins making way to his own tent with the ghost following close by. "I probably _will_ have to do that tonight. I don't have much time to work on it aside from now."

 The ghost pulls a face, fazing through the tent's cloth as Chrom ducks past the flap. "You just promised her you'd sleep."

 "I didn't really _promise_ ," he grins wearily. Pulling out maps upon maps, he lays them across a collapsable table and pulls up a chair. He glances up, seeing that the ghost looks around absently, as if to find something of interest. "That reminds me-- I've been meaning to ask, but where do you go when everyone eats, or heads to bed? You can't exactly eat or sleep, correct?"

 Shrugging with a frown, the ghost peers over his shoulder towards the maps. There's a light that flickers in them as they dart around the parts of the map. He seems... taken with it, for the most part. "I wander, I guess. To look around the surroundings. I can't really sleep anymore, so I have to find something to do." 

 "Do you want a chair?" Chrom asks belatedly, pulling out a few pens and ink vials. 

 The white-haired man blinks in surprise, but he says yes in the end. Chrom has to go to Frederick's tent to acquire another chair ("I apologize, I forgot mine back at the garrison.") and comes back to see the ghost scrutinizing the maps. Chrom sets the chair down silently and carefully unclasps the armor he's wearing, watching as the ghost seems to be picturing things out in his mind. He sets it aside along with his sword and sits down, dreading but resigned to strategy work. 

 The ghost doesn't say much for a while, just watching everything unfold in front of him. He watches as Chrom initially sends units out to retrieve any citizens in immediate danger. He plans for him and Frederick to storm ahead with Sumia to take down the commander, and--

 "What if they have an archer positioned near the commander?" the ghost interjects, breaking Chrom's concentration and work flow. 

 "If they do, then either I or Frederick will have to take them down."

 "That's too risky, though. They could shoot down Sumia before either one of you reaches them. You should probably take someone else, like… maybe Sully? You could pair up with her and easily mow down any archers to make way for Sumia."

 Chrom blinks and turns to the other, "That's… not a bad idea. Do you happen to be familiar with strategies?" He's a little surprised he even knows Sumia or Sully. Well-- then again, the ghost has nothing to  _do_ , so maybe that's why he seems to know enough about the Shepherds already.

 "Uh, maybe," he says, a bit abashed, "it seems really familiar to me. Oh, you should probably get Stahl to go ahead with you to reach the villagers that _are_ within reach and immediate danger…"

 Chrom smiles, something the ghost doesn't see as he continues to ramble about other things that might work. Maybe it won't be that long of a night.

 

\--

 

He was right, for the most part.

 Chrom parries with a barbarian, shoving them with his weight. They stumble and he easily slashes them across the chest with a wide swing. He looks up and searches, quickly spotting Stahl skewering an archer as Sumia darts by overhead. Nearby, another archer falls by Sully's hand, giving Sumia clear way to take down a few swordsmen and mages. 

 Things were going greatly-- from what he could see, units have rescued and evacuated any captured civilians. The commander looked beyond furious, shouting different orders from his post, his safe spot. He clenches Falchion's hilt and begins dashing towards the commander. 

 Frederick calls out from somewhere, but it's drowned out by the screech of a downed brigand. Adrenaline surges through him, heart pounding. If he takes the commander down now, it'll be smooth sailing from--

 " _Chrom!"_

 He stumbles to a halt, whipping his head around. He zeros in on the white-haired ghost, who's facing another direction, like he's indicating something. And with that, he sees--

 An arrow goes flying past his ear, scoring the shell of it. The thrill from earlier literally plummets in his gut as he ducks down when he sees the archer pull back again. Another arrow sails right over his head, and would've hit him if hadn't ducked. He hears the arrow thunk soundly into someone else's back, and with a glance he sees it's a barbarian. 

  _That could've been bad,_ he thinks, eyes wide, _that could have been really bad_. A second delay, it might have struck his skull. The archer curses and hurries to grab another arrow. Chrom takes one last glance at the commander. He's _so_ close, he could reach out and--

 But no, the archer has their eyes on Sumia now that they've missed Chrom. He begins sprinting and easily reaches the archer in time. With a broad swipe, the archer falls just before the arrow flies. 

 He doesn't get the chance to check on the ghost because Frederick is calling out to him, barreling through the battle astride his horse, checking if he is unharmed. He calls back, rushing to Frederick's side to shove a pesky swordsman away from taking a chunk out of the horse's leg. 

 "What made you stop?" Frederick asks loudly, swinging his lance. It connects solidly across the gut of a barbarian, launching them nearly into a building. Chrom lunges forwards to cut down a mage with their eyes upon his steward.

 "I thought something was off!" Chrom shouts back, the lie easily rolling off his tongue. 

 When the battle slowly begins to die down, the commander finally takes a stand. His burly stature makes him look more powerful and stronger than he is-- there is immense strength behind each swing, but the hits don't strike true. Chrom's sure he only made it to the top by brute strength.

 He also can do meager magic. It's the unfair, nasty kind that can be done without large tomes and are often used in close combat battles. They only figure this out when Frederick gets a lovely new dent in his armor and goes flying off his stead.

 "Frederick!" Chrom shouts, paring with the commander. He kicks him away, lurching to get before his fallen friend. "Are you alright?" Frederick's horse neighs and bucks violently, startled from the magic spell. Frederick himself only looks winded, if not aching from the impact.

 "I will be, Milord," he says, lugging himself up to his feet. He staggers on his feet, trying to calm his horse.

 The commander took this opportunity-- Chrom was looking away for a brief moment, making sure no one made a move against Frederick. It's a bit too late when Chrom turns back around, the blade coming down too fast for him to parry. _I can't--_

 Something comes flying in from the side, striking sharply against the cross guard of the blade with a deafening ring. The commander roars in start, the blow having made the sword fly from his hands. Chrom glances and sees Virion with his sights down, lowering the bow in his hands. With a brief nod of thanks, Chrom moves to finish the commander.

 

\--

 

"I think my name was Robin."

 It's a bit out of the blue, but Chrom doesn't mind.

 "'Robin'? Why do you think that?" he asks, reviewing a unit move on the plans. The ghost before him glances up, reaching for another map.

 It was night once again. (It never seems to be day when they need to do tactics.) It had become a normal thing for the ghost to help with the tactics ever since the fight at the border-- after how well things seem to go, there's no way he  _couldn't_ let them help. He seemed to be enjoying it, too-- it was one of the few things he could actually _do._ (It also let Chrom off on some of the burden, which he was incredibly grateful for.)

 He's been getting more sleep and some people have even noted that the battle patterns are getting more and more successful. Not that he can ever tell them that he found a tactician-- one that's a _ghost._ They can just continue to believe that he's getting better at doing this, if they want. He's not exactly _trying_ to take credit. Just-- Who knows what would happen if the whole militia finds out he's been relying on a paranormal being to lead them to success?

 "I'm not completely sure," he says, un-scrolling the map with a bit of struggle. He's learned that he can only interact with things, just barely-- his hands constantly phase through them, but had enough of a presence to actually move things. "Someone pointed out a robin's nest the other day and it kinda struck a chord in me? I'm not sure how to describe it, but it seemed familiar and I think it's my name."

 Chrom hums in acknowledgement, tapping the pen as he waits for instructions on what to note. (It's come to this point because the pen kept dropping through the other's hands.) "It's not a common name from around here. It doesn't help with finding out where you're truly from."

 A look of melancholy crosses the ghost-- Robin's-- face. "Yeah. Not really."

 

\--

 

"Milord?"

 Chrom opens his eyes to a canopy of leaves above him. The sun is filtering through the leaves, casting shadows all around him. There's a zephyr, making the leaves swap and sun shine right in his eyes. He squints against it uselessly before raising a hand to block it.

 "Yes?" he says aloud. He doesn't want to sit up from where he is now-- he's gotten too comfortable and he might not be able to settle again if he moves.

 The shadow of Frederick comes into the corner of his vision. The brunette stands a respectful distance away, looking at Chrom with a raised eyebrow. "Forgive me for waking you, but you've missed lunch and there's a storm on the horizon. I think it is best is you move indoors," he advises.

 Chrom doesn't move immediately, just staring back up into the canopy above him. A bird flits around the branches, seemingly putting together a nest just above the area he is. He's never been _great_ with telling birds apart, but he thinks that this one is a robin.

  _Ironic_ , he thinks. Sitting up begrudgingly, he rubs his eyes and looks around. Indeed, to the left of him there's a gathering of clouds in the sky that don't seem to be serene. The garrison building isn't too far away-- it's far enough away and the only reason he came over here was to not be disturbed for the most part. He then looks at Frederick, who has already picked up Falchion, which he had laid down next to him as he slept.

 "Is that all?" Chrom asks, rising and taking Falchion from Frederick. There's rarely ever a time when there isn't something else he needs to hear.

 Frederick pauses, thinking over his words before saying: "I do have some questions, Milord, if that is alright."

 It's his turn to quirk an eyebrow. Once in every blue moon does Frederick question him aside from his normal worries and such.

 "Have at it," Chrom says, stretching and popping his back contently.

 They begin to walk back to the garrison after a moment. Frederick clears his throat first before he speaks. "I do not mean to accuse you of anything, but have you not told us if you found a tactician?"

 Chrom blinks, turning to Frederick with an expression of surprise. Had the difference between tactics been _that_ large? Chrom _thought_ he was good at doing it… Plus, there's no way he could ever tell Frederick about Robin. Even if the knight is the most loyal person he knows, he _would_ have doubts about Chrom's supposed ghost friend. 

 "I haven't. Am I getting better so quickly that you're mistaking it as someone else?" he jokes lightly. He feels a tiny twinge of guilt for taking the full credit of Robin's work that only he knows about.

 Frederick frowns. "Milord, how late are you staying up at night to make such strategies?"

 He's actually been sleeping more with Robin around. It sounds lame when worded in such a way, but Robin _really_ does cut the time it take to make plans. He's even began recommending that he can finish up the plans while Chrom heads to sleep, so he can review them next morning. It's not a half-bad idea, but the stubborn part of him needs to be there and he _refuses_ to let Robin to work all night long in his stead.

 "I'm not staying up too late, Frederick," Chrom says amused, grinning lopsidedly, "You're beginning to sound an awful lot like Lissa."

 "Milord, your rest is not something you can just forgo."

 Chrom waves a dismissive hand. "Don't worry too much about it. I've just gotten better at making them."

 A response doesn't come from Frederick and it's easy to tell that he's not satisfied with the answer. They walk silently for a few moments, nearly reaching a tense silence.

 "There is also a few tomes that Miriel had found recently. She doesn't have a need for them, so she's willing to give them to the Shepherds," Frederick says belatedly, awkwardly breaking the silence. "She recommends that we check over them before we put them in storage."

 "Ah, only if she did that with all the other tomes she had," Chrom jests.

 They reach the garrison with a lighter air than previously. Inside, it's not as loud as it usually is, probably because people retired for the storm or it was getting late. Since less people are about, it's easy to spy the small pile of tomes strewn across a table. Miriel sits not far from the tomes, one of them cracked open before her as she deciphers it.

 Robin is there too, of all things. He's floating near the tomes, inspecting the covers with interest. He seems to stay clear of a close proximity of Miriel, just incase her magic capabilities would allow her to notice his presence.

 Both Chrom and Frederick make way, making Miriel glance up and nod in acknowledgement.

 "Captain Chrom, Frederick," she says in a clipped way, "I assume you're here to store the tomes?" She turns back to the tome in front of her. Robin finally notices their appearance, waving a small hello to Chrom as he turns back to look at the covers.

 Chrom nods, hefting one of them and flipping to a page. None of it really makes any legible sense to him, but that's normal in his case of being just a swordsman. He wasn't very well taken to his lessons regarding magic when he was younger. "I trust that these were in good care?"

 "Of course," Miriel sniffs, "I've checked them all previously-- none of them are counterfeits."

 "Great, thank you," Chrom says. He turns to the paladin and says: "I'll handle taking these to storage." Robin hovers over to Chrom, peering over his shoulder to the pages of the tome. His eyes dart across the page, seemingly understanding what the words are.

 Frederick opens his mouth to say something back-- probably along the lines of it's not something that he should burden himself by doing-- but Chrom waves him off. "I need to check the queue, too. There's no need to worry yourself over this."

 The frown on his face only becomes more prominent, but he doesn't say another word. He moves away and Miriel turns back to her book, so Chrom hefts a few tomes and heads to the arsenal. 

 Robin follows not far behind, looking back longingly at the tomes. Once they're out of the mess hall, Chrom asks, "Do you have an interest in magic?"

 Shrugging, Robin lands on his feet gracefully. (He's really gotten how to float-- it doesn't look like he needs to think about what he's doing anymore.) "I guess? I don't think I was a mage, but tomes _are_ interesting. These ones are different from the ones I've seen previously."

 Chrom doesn't respond immediately, seeing Maribelle coming down the hall. He nods to her as she passes, and once she's gone, says, "You've seen them before? Where?"

 A look of realization crosses his face. "Ah, I don't think I told you, then. I use to travel with a merchant band before I started traveling with the Shepherds. There was a merchant who mainly sold tomes, so I read them whenever he left them open for costumers to page through. I think they were less powerful tomes, though. These ones seem more… what's the word… grand? They're a lot more difficult to comprehend, that's for sure."

 "That's Miriel, for you," Chrom says, grinning towards Robin, "she's all about the ancient, powerful tomes. Do you think ghosts can even cast magic?"

 The white-haired ghost snorts in amusement, "I can't even lift up a tome. I doubt I could cast a spell without it fazing through my target."

 "Surely you can turn the pages?" Chrom opens the door to the warehouse, stepping in. He holds it open for Robin to enter. 

 The room is full with extra supplies like food, vulenaries, weaponry (rows and rows of swords and spears and javelins), and tomes. It's a shame they're never _here_ at the garrison to retrieve the things they need when they need it-- (more than once have they required an extra supply of vegetables because Lissa flat out _refuses_ to eat game meat.)

 Apparently to Robin, the arsenal seems to extend endlessly. A sound of amazement comes from him as he steps in slowly, craning his head to look at everything. Chrom snorts at the expression on his face. 

 He moves to the pile of tomes and sets them down wherever. He needs to take count of whatever's been used since the last time he's check and-- oh Gods, why'd he say he'd do this himself? There's probably _hundreds_ of things to check up on!

 Pushing down his grumble, he asks aloud, "Should I leave a tome out for you? I mean, you could turn the pages and read whatever you need." 

 "You-- you would do that?" Robin asks incredulously, appearing at his side. He looks over the tomes with a certain amazement and reverence. 

 "Of course," Chrom says, "I mean, it'll give you something to do." He absentmindedly reaches up and moves his hand to Robin's shoulder.

 It passes right through. A sting of cold shoots down his arm, making him shiver. It was like his hand passed through a mass of mists, but the mists kept their shape that was _Robin_. Something drops in Chrom's stomach, it hitting him for the first time in a while that Robin _is_ a ghost. He's _known_ that, but something twists his gut. Robin doesn't _truly_ exist. He exists, but not _really._  He's constantly surrounded by people, but no one knows he's there. 

 Just… just how _lonely_ was Robin before he came across Chrom?

 Robin didn't even seem to notice the action, instead peering at the visible tome covers with a look of wonder on his face. 

 "Ah, which one do I _choose?"_ he frets, just barely being able to push aside a few lighter tomes to peer at other titles. He's making it out to be much more of an important decision than it actually is. Turning and giving Chrom a sheepish smile, he asks, "Is it okay if you take more than one?"

 It takes a moment for him to find his voice. "Yeah, of course."

 

\--

 

"Chrom? Have you been… _studying_ magic?"

 That's the last thing he'd ever thought he'd be asked by Lissa. 

 He blinks in confusion accordingly, putting down the maps he had been carrying. They were in Regna Ferox upon Emmeryn's request. The battling along the border is progressively getting worse and worse-- they'd need the aid of someone to reduce the causalities by the tenfold.

 "No? You of all people know that I don't have a speck of magic energy in me," he says, quirking an eyebrow.

 Lissa twiddles her fingers, as if she's asking something risky. "I… I mean, I know that, but the other day I saw you had a tome with you and? I didn't think you would need a tome? You didn't even hand it off to someone else afterwards…"

  _Ah, that's what she's talking about,_ he thinks with growing amusement. So she probably saw the tome Robin was currently having him lug around. It's only natural that she'd think that-- even Ricken had asked about it in the passing.

 He chuckles, ruffling her hair. She makes an irritated noise, nearly like the yowl of a wet cat, and whacks his hand away. "Don't worry about it. I was going to put it in the arsenal but got distracted quite a bit," he lies smoothly, nearly guilty for how easily it came. Lissa, though, pouts and crosses her arms.

 There's something else she wants to say. It's _obvious_ in her posture and the downward quirk of her mouth, but she's pressing her lips together forcibly, trying to keep the words in. 

 "You _can_ just say it," Chrom says, pulling her out of her thoughts, "I'm listening."

 Her posture relaxes just a _tiny_ bit. "It's just-- I saw you when you were doing tactics the other night and…" --He goes rigid, but Lissa doesn't notice-- "A map un-scrolled itself? It wasn't like how they would do it if you just _dropped_ a map and let it do it itself, it was more like someone doing it manually. But the map was in front of you? Like, on the other side of the table."

 A small well of panic builds inside of him, but he doesn't let it show. He raises an eyebrow instead of scowling. "Really now?" 

 "Yeah! You weren't looking up or anything, so I guess you didn't see it, but it unrolled right in front of you! It was _so_ strange!" Lissa says, "I can't think of any other way you could've done that but magic! Though you didn't have a tome near you…"

 He lets out a loud laugh, shaking his head, "Lissa, you're imagining things. I can't do magic. And were you snooping on me? I said I _do_ actually sleep at night."

 Spluttering, she blurts, "I know! I-I was just--"

 Chrom rolls his eyes, ruffling her hair again, "I don't need to hear it."

 

\--

 

Chrom doesn't normally have straight up loathing for anyone. But-- but _Gangrel pisses him off_.

 Who-- who does he _think_ he is? Sure, he's a king of a kingdom that happens to like _raiding their villages and killing their civilians_ , but does he think he has the right to demand something from Ylisse? He captures Maribelle, and then demands the royal treasure from Emmeryn? Then he straight up tells them that he wants to _kill_ everyone in Ylisse? He--

  _He pisses Chrom off_.

 Falchion's hilt feels like it's burning in his hands. No _wonder_ a kingdom like Plegia is in such an awful state; with someone like _that--_ someone so despicable, so selfish, so fucking _awful_ \-- ruling over them, of course nothing would be right.

 Frederick moves to put a grounding hand on his shoulder. He seems to _know_ the seething he's feeling, but Frederick knows its best not to act rash. Emmeryn casts a small look of gratitude towards Frederick.

 Robin's there, too, in the corner of his eye. Even though he has nothing to do with the problems between Plegia and Ylisse, he looks just as angry as Chrom feels. His hands are clenched into tight fists by his side, and the scowl on his face is deep-set. He can't help them fight, he can't yell his insults to Gangrel, but the fact that he _cares_ about this gives Chrom a feeling of gratitude. 

 But, of course, once Gangrel simply sends all of his army down upon them, Chrom can now unleash the rage building in him. 

 (Maribelle is luckily rescued by Ricken, so he can easily go and fight without worrying for her life. The rotten _bastard_ \-- using her life like a  _bargaining chip--_ )

 Soldiers fall one by one before him. He mows through them like they're nothing, which he only feels a brief pang of guilt for, but the eyes of hatred and the sheer unyielding ruthlessness of them easily smothers the guilt. 

Gangrel's mounted atop the hill, laughing gleefully at the fighting below him. "Good luck getting out of this one, little prince!" he yells, grinning wickedly. Chrom lurches towards him, grip tight on his sword, but another soldier swerves into his path. 

 With a sneer, Gangrel steps forward, sword in his hands. "It actually might be nice to slay the prince of Ylisse _myself,"_ he boasts, raising his sword as Chrom cuts through the soldier blocking him. 

 Someone calls him from afar, and he before he reaches the Mad King, the air in front of him crackles. Chrom jerks backwards instinctively at the suddenness of it-- he's been struck by Thunders too many times already, he just _knows it_ \-- just in time for a bolt of lightning to rip through the air before his eyes, striking Gangrel on his temple. The sound that rips from Gangrel's throat sounds nearly primal,  hand flying to the mark as blood spurts from it.

 Chrom turns to the direction of the bolt and gaps. _Robin_ stands there, a tome dropping from his hands. He doesn't look okay, it's _not okay--_  His hands are shaking and he _looks_ exhausted, and he  _just casted magic._

 Gangrel looks up, his eyes full of uncontrollable rage, and _turns_ to Robin. "You worthless piece of trash-- _how_ _dare you!_ "

 Chrom nearly drops his sword, gaping at Gangrel. Robin does too, looking caught somewhere between bewildered and straight up  _fearful_. There's no doubt in his mind that the same thought process is going through Robin's head-- _How in the name of Naga can he see him?_

 Robin's posture literally shows the terror he's feeling. His hand, Chrom notes with a start, is _steaming_ \-- is that something from the tome--?

 Gangrel surges forward to Robin, making Chrom shout in start. He narrowly blocks Gangrel, taking a slash to the horse's flank. It rears, nearly making Gangrel topple over. Such loathing flames on his face, but Aversa steps in and advises Gangrel to leave. _Now_.

 "This _isn't_ the end, little prince," Gangrel seethes, casting a vial look in Robin's direction before galloping off on his horse. Aversa looks in Robin's direction, eyes narrowed and searching, but she doesn't see anything. She turns and rides off as well.

 Completely forgetting the current situation, Chrom rushes over to Robin. "Are you alright?" he asks, looking down to the tome to cover the action of talking to Robin.

 Robin looks aghast, raising his hands before him. "He-- he could--"

 " _I know_ ," Chrom spats, " _are you okay?"_ Using magic made him look more transparent than ever before, and it's _terrifying._ If-- if he were to--

 "I-- I will be, I think," Robin breathes quickly as if panic is rising in him, "I n-needed to know if I could use magic and-- it seemed like a good time--"

 "A good time to scare the _shit_ out of me," Chrom says, scoping out the area before them. He lifts up the tome and it sizzles with excess electricity. "Go-- go head back to the healers and _rest_. Go somewhere out of this place. _Don't_ try to use magic again."

 Robin nods numbly, his eyes showing the conflict his thoughts are in. He turns and takes a leap off a small cliff, catching into his float and diving down to a lower area. Chrom watches him go, his fingers digging into the tome cover before he runs back into combat.

 

\--

 

No one saw it. _No one saw it._

There wasn't much more of a relieving thought than that to Chrom at the moment. 

 The battle was a win for them. Emmeryn was thoroughly disappointed there was no way to interpret the battle as anything but a declaration of war, but she said it was something to review before acting. If Gangrel were to make another move as brash as that one, there would not be any hesitance.

 Robin, on the other hand, is not doing too well. 

 It might be because Gangrel _saw_ him, or it might be that he was literally drained from using magic. He had used an immense amount of focus to just keep the book from phasing through him _and_ staying out of sight, and using the damn tome snapped his energy.

  _He's looking more ghastly than normal_.

 He hadn't gone out to wonder much after the battle for a few days, taking most of his time in Chrom's room. A sullen air hangs around him when Chrom just observes him, but it goes away when Robin notices his gaze. He's paler-- somehow paler than he was before. Ghosts are always pale and ashy, aren't they? He didn't think they could get this pale. Maybe he's a bit more _transparent,_ but Chrom doesn't want to think anything of it.

 Both of them have spoke about it. There-- there's no solid reason Gangrel should be able to see him (then again, there's no reason _Chrom_ should be able to see him). Robin came up with the most reasonable theory-- maybe because he was hit with magic from Robin, he maybe became able to see him. It's a weak theory, one with little support, but what else are they meant to _do?_ Robin's really the only ghost he knows, and he can't exactly test that theory.

 (Robin still reads the tomes. He's just now conscious of what _using_ them could do to him.)

 He's back to watching over everyone when he finally goes out again. Everyone seems to be more tense, according to him. Like they all know that there's a war on the horizon.

 Chrom can't blame them.

 Frederick begins to see the effects, too.

 "We need to discuss this more with the Exalt," Frederick states. Chrom nods solemnly.

 "Without a doubt. We'll really require the help of Regna Ferox now. Thankfully they let Lon'qu join us," Chrom says, spying Lissa pester the said swordsman. 

 "Yes…" Frederick pauses, looking at Chrom sideways. There's a look in his eyes, and Chrom isn't sure if he's going to like this. "I do not mean to bring this up out of the blue, but it has taken place in my mind for a while. What happened when you fought with Gangrel?"

  _He saw_.

 Chrom really needs an award for how well he doesn't express his thoughts. Do they even have those kinds of things? "What do you mean?" he asks, his voice unwavering. Robin is watch Lissa and Lon'qu, watching how Lon'qu tries to escape her attention. He doesn't look their way.

 "I saw you two begin to fight," Frederick recalls, looking forward, "then there was a lightning bolt from the side, but no one was there to cast it. Both of you seemed to see the caster, but I could not. Were they hiding?"

 He expels the panic in him by digging his fingers into his palms. "They were probably out of sight to you, but they were there. It was a Plegian mage who only saw to aid Gangrel and tried to hit me, but had bad timing."

 "But I did not see you take them down? More than anything, you seemed… distressed."

  _Why_ does Frederick have to have a good eye? _Why_ did he have to be watching at that moment? _Why_ wasn't there an easier way to lie out of this one?

 "After accidentally striking the Mad King, they panicked and made a run for it. They're probably rogue now." Chrom also needs an award for how well lies are coming to him now.

 But, _of course_ , Frederick still has his suspicions. "Is that really all that happened? Why miss the chance to strike you?"

 "I don't know, Frederick," he puts on his finalization voice, one he uses to end conversations easily, and recently, to get out of saying the complete truth, "They can't do harm anymore."

 For a moment, Frederick is silent. It's terrifying, because Frederick _always_ just accepts his answers.

 "Milord, I apologize if I am stepping out of turn," he starts and Chrom grows rigid, "but are you possibly lying to me?"

  _Why_ does Frederick know him so well?

 "I'm not, and you're not stepping out of turn," Chrom sighs, "I just… I feel like I let everyone down because I failed to strike the Mad King then and there, just when I had the chance."

 To this, Frederick finally lets the conversation drop. "It is not your fault," he says sternly, "because I doubt anyone else would have gotten so close to achieve it."

 

\--

 

 He awakes blearily, his eyes still heavy with sleep. It's still dark outside-- of course, what else did he expect, a full night of sleep?-- but his mind is already up and running and he feels sleep drifting further and further away from him. (Plus, the air is chilly and the mattress is scratchy.)

 He kicks the covers from the tangled mess with his legs. Sitting up, he blinks and waits for his eyes to adjust, looking around for nothing in general. It takes him a moment to realize he's in his tent, not his actual room-- ah yes, he's beginning to remember it now. They need to defend another village from Plegian brigands. This village is more inland than the others. Just how long will it be until they finally raid a city or town? They've already declared war, so... it's really only a matter of time, he guesses.

 Chrom swings his legs off the bed and stands, grimacing at the chilled dirt on the tent floor. He's not going to be able to sleep for the rest of the night, so he's got to make use of himself somehow. He swipes up Falchion as he shuffles towards the table he and Robin normally do war meetings at.

 The most recent tome Robin's taken to reading is carefully placed off to the side of a map laid out across the table. From what he's been told, this tome is mainly a fire tome. He can't recall what it's named.

 It makes him realize that Robin wasn't in the room. Normally he'd be sitting somewhere, near a dimly lit lantern Chrom would leave out for him and a tome nestled in his hands. He'd read for hours; then again, he had nothing else to do otherwise. Robin really seems to appreciate that Chrom can provide tomes for him to read. The lantern was out and the seat was unoccupied. Now, just where _was_ that ghost?

 Even though he struggles not to acknowledge it, there's a growing feeling of dread in his gut.

 Ever since the Gangrel incident, they both have been wary around tomes. If Robin were to cast magic again, what would happen? Would he fade away even more? Or would he be more drained until he just can't exist anymore? He can't fathom a reason and if something _happened_ while he was asleep--

 _No,_ he forcibly shakes his head, clearing the onslaught of thoughts. He's probably out and looking around like he use to. It's not surprising-- they're in a new area and he'd like to venture out himself.

 Pushing the tent flap open, he looks to see if anyone else is awake before stepping out. The air is bitingly cold and he has to rub his arms to keep warm. He chooses a direction and heads off, hoping nothing bad crosses his way.

 It actually doesn't take long for him to find Robin. He's sitting at the crest of a hill not far from camp, staring out to the sky before him. He has an ethereal glow to him, even in the dark-- probably because he's a ghost-- but it makes it easier to spot him.

 Robin doesn't hear him when he steps up. (He's lacking his usual armor so he doesn't make much noise as normal.) He's looking eastward, leaning back on his arms. The breeze somehow gently ruffles his hair and the cloak splayed out behind him. His head is tilted back so the expansion of the sky is all he can see. This is probably the most serene he's seen Robin-- he nearly turns around without a word, but Robin notices him belatedly.

 "Ah. Couldn't sleep?" He asks, his voice soft in the silence.

 "You could say that," Chrom says, crossing his arms and looking towards the stars as well.

 Robin looks up at him curiously before patting the grass next to him. Sighing in resignation, Chrom slowly settles down next to him, shuffling to get comfortable. The grass is cold beneath his hands but he doesn't mention it.

 The stars gleam in the night sky like pin pricks and he could see what's got Robin so enticed in it. He looks at the ghost's face, seeing his eyes flitting from star to star, maybe even mapping out constellations in his mind. Does he _know_ constellations? He might need to ask Miriel if she has a book on it so he can get it for Robin next time--

 "You know…" Robin starts, not looking his way. His eyes are now focused on one point in the sky. "I… I always wonder if I use to do this. Sitting outside and stargazing."

 Chrom smiles softly. "You seem like the type of person to do it."

 Robin's face drops a tiny, infinitesimal bit; Chrom barely noticed it. "Do I?" he asks, voice sounding distant with his thoughts, "What… What did I even do back then? Who was I?" The questions are rhetorical, aimless.

 Chrom finds himself speechless for a moment. The expression on Robin's face is something he cannot identify; its stoic, but there's cracks. The corners of his mouth tug down with a burden Chrom does not know, his eyes looking to something far beyond the sky.

 What… What was he meant to _say?_

 "I know you were great before," Chrom says confidently, "there's no doubt in my mind."

 "What if I wasn't, though?" Robin says through clenched teeth, like he was biting back the words.

 Pausing, Chrom tries to find the proper words to say. "You… what do you mean?" It's a bad question. Awful. But he's drawing a blank at the meaning of Robin's words and it's only making the dread in his stomach grow.

 Robin bites down on his lower lip, like he's trying to keep his mouth shut. It doesn't last long. "What if I _wasn't_ a good person? What if I killed people?" Robin bursts, finally looking down from the sky and to his feet, which remained bare. "What if I was your _enemy_ before, Chrom? What would I _be_ , then?" He turns to him and of _course_ only now is it that Chrom notices the look of being lost in Robin's eyes.

 There's an awful pause after his words. Chrom should've not let it happened, but he… _Gods_ , he never thought about how much being like this would _affect_ Robin. _Is this… Is this what he thinks about every day?_ he wonders, his stomach dropping more and more, _and… and I let him?_

 Robin turns away, a flush suddenly coming over his face. "I-- I shouldn't have said that, ignore it--" he says uselessly. He rushes to his feet shakily, wringing his hands as he looks anywhere but Chrom. "Just a slip of words-- um, haha, y'know, what ifs are crazy things!" He forces, a stiff laugh coming from him that sounds dull to his own ears.

 Unsurprisingly, it doesn't pass Chrom.

 He stands somehow smoothly without any falters (though his gut is wrenching and his mind is rushing). Robin physically shies away at the look he's casting him.

 Chrom takes a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. "You… You don't have to hold it in," he says carefully, like saying the wrong word would destroy it all. "I… I may be  the only one who knows you exist, but you _can_ tell me these things. You don't have to hold these burdens." He looks down to the grass below Robin's feet, through the transparency of his skin. "Robin, you're my friend. One of the closest friends I've had in _years_. And you just don't _deserve_ to worry about this."

 Chrom looks up to Robin, and blinks in surprise. Robin looks _lost_ in that moment. He shuffles his feet, trying to look anywhere but Chrom and he blinks rapidly. His shoulders are still slumped but his knuckles aren't white anymore.

 "It doesn't matter who you were previously," Chrom continues, "This is who you are now, and that's all that matters. You're Robin."

 Robin quickly moves to rub at his eyes, his breath hitching in his throat. "R-right. I'm Robin, a ghost tactician for a prince who's also the captain of a militia group." He snorts quietly.

 Chrom smiles for him, stepping closer. "Our story's quite the strange one, huh."

 Robin nods, scrubbing his face with his hands. They come to a rest over his eyes and Chrom gets a good look at the mark on Robin's hand. "I… I just… wonder if anyone's out there… waiting for me…" Robin says, just barely over the breeze. "I don't remember them and… I can't meet them." His voice wavers, his fingers curling in. "What… What will I do then?"

 "I'll find them." He takes a chance and reaches out, his hand shakily brushing over Robin's shoulder. He actually _feels_ the texture of the cloak beneath his fingertips. "I promise you. I'll find those waiting for you." His hand curves over Robin's shoulder. 

 "Thanks." Robin laughs airily, moving his hands from his face. He seems to be rebuilding his composition. "I doubt you'll find anyone. But…" he pauses, as if unsure he should continue. "Can I… maybe… stay with you all? Until then?"

 Chrom squeezes his shoulder-- only he notices his fingers fuzzing through his cloak-- and smiles. "I thought you were from the beginning."

 

\--

 

 "… I'm really beginning to hate being at war with Plegia."

 Chrom raises an eyebrow at Robin's words. Robin realizes just how badly worded it was.

 "Ah, sorry, I mean…" he sputters, flushing, "I hate that we have to fight against them, cause, y'know, war really sucks, but it's really beginning to grate my nerves that there's so many battles on sandy terrain? Is that worded better?" He winces, rubbing his forehead in resignation. "Gods, that sounded whiney. Please forget I said any of that."

 Snorting, Chrom leans back in his chair. It creaks against his weight, scraping against the little armor he has on. "Yeah, battling on sandy terrain is obnoxious. We don't have that many people who move quickly on their feet, especially through something like sand," Chrom says, aiding Robin from his disaster of explaining himself.

 Robin scowls, "That's what I meant. It's difficult to fight in their territory and sand is just annoying." He's trying to save what he said and busies himself with the map in front of him. "I mean… there's no end to it. Surely their soldiers aren't that agile to move across the sand that well either. Why continue to fight on areas where it's a disadvantage for both sides?"

 Chrom shrugs accordingly. "At least we're not putting the lives of civilians in villages in danger most of the time."

 "That's true," Robin says. Then he pauses, looking up to the ceiling of the chamber in thought. "If I may ask, what… what was the thing Gangrel was demanding from Exalt Emmeryn?"

 "The Fire Emblem?" He wasn't really expecting that. Then again, Robin knows nothing of Ylisse or Plegia or anything involving these kingdoms. 

 "Yeah. Isn't that what caused this whole war?" Robin asks absently. 

 Chrom hums in confirmation. "It's one of the treasures of Ylisse. It was made by Naga's fang. The first Exalt of Ylisse used it to defeat the fell dragon, Grima. It's incredibly powerful, so it's practically the key to Gangrel's plan to destroy us."

 Robin blinks at the information. "It was made by the dragon's fang? That's impressive."

 "Do you even know the story of Naga and Grima? or have you read it from a book I lent you?"

  "Not a clue," he says, reaching out to scroll a unneeded map. "We've got time, however. Mind telling me it instead of doing tactics? My brain's going to fry if I keep going." 

 Laughing, Chrom moves to help gather stray notes and pens. " _You're_ the master Tactician here. If your brain fries, we're all doomed. But alright." He himself had been getting bleary-eyed from staring at that damn map all night. He could probably draw it with his eyes closed. 

 Robin grins briefly, scrolling up the continental tactic map. Just as he finishes tying it up, there's a knock at the door and it swings open. 

 "Pardon me, Milord, for interrupting your conversation--" _Frederick_ steps in. In his arms is a stack of papers, no doubt from the Council. His eyes are trained onto the top sheets, as if preparing to have a discussion about the papers' contents. He raises his eyes only now, seeing the aghast look on Chrom's face and a map dropping onto the table. 

 

\--

 

To his credit, Frederick hasn't said a word about it.

 It's strangely nerve wrecking. Frederick hasn't even changed his attitude towards Chrom-- he still does everything the same, worry the same, dote the same. Maybe he doesn't think anything of it? Maybe he doesn't think Chrom has lost his mind-- wait, no, that's impossible. Frederick's _sure_ to think Chrom lost his marbles, he's just too polite to say anything. That's gotta be it.

 Even now, as Frederick trots on his horse beside him as the Shepherds march into an area where Plegia is overstepping their reign, he doesn't even show a notion of the event.

 "Chrom? Are you alright?" Lissa asks suddenly, pulling him out of his thoughts. He glances back to Lissa, who is atop a horse and looking a bit tired of moving already. 

 "I'm fine. How are you holding up?" he asks lightly. She sticks her tongue out at him, scowling.

 "How much longer until we get there?" she grumbles, shifting on the saddle, "My butt is killing me."

 "Just a bit longer, Lady Lissa," Frederick intervenes smoothly, "I see the site just ahead."

 "Are there any signs of troops?" Chrom struggles to see that far ahead, being on his feet instead of horseback. He also uses this opportunity to look for Robin, who's messing with Stahl's horse. (They've found that animals tend to notice his present, strangely enough.)

 Robin looks up at that moment and notes that he should probably approach. He leisurely floats over, listening in.

 "Not that I can see, but it would be best if we put up a perimeter in case they do come filing in," Frederick suggests. Chrom nods accordingly.

 The site is more of what remains of a long abandoned village. There's only a few ruins of buildings that once stood there-- no doubt there was more, but time has withered away anything left of them. This place was stuck somewhere in the frontier of the borders, a place where no one claims. It's just barren land, too-- it wouldn't be of any use for either country to control.

 They send out watches and put up a light perimeter of soldiers. Chrom frowns as he approaches what seems like a fallen home, Robin and Frederick not far behind. 

 Sand had long since made layers upon layers over whatever remains; not like there is much to cover. Books that must have been ages old are now nothing more than a few illegible, fragile pieces of paper. 

 "What do you think the Plegians would need from this place? There's nothing here." Chrom crosses his arms and looks to Frederick. "There's has to be something they're after-- I can't think of any reason otherwise."

 Frederick frowns in thoughts. "If there was something they needed, they've probably taken it already. Whatever tracks they left are most likely covered up from the sand gusts."

 Curiously, Robin moves over to the pile of nearly nonexistent books. His footsteps make soft imprints in the sand, but the wind is blowing and moving it so it's not noticeable. He looks like he's trying not to reach out and touch the books-- they'd probably crumble under his touch and Frederick was there.

 "That's true," Chrom says, moving to get out of the ruins. "It just makes me wonder what they wanted."

 A gust of wind rushes through the ruins, throwing up a wave of sand. Several soldiers raise their arms to cover their eyes. The books that Robin stands nearby flips open with the wind. The pages tear from the poor binding and flutter to the ground, some disintegrating at the contact. A block of a ruin erodes away at the wind, making Lissa anxious.

 Lissa makes a noise of apprehension, grasping the staff with white knuckles. "Chrom! Let's hurry up-- this place is giving me the creeps!" she says, glancing out towards beyond the ruins, as if checking for Plegian troops.

 Frederick steps up to a surviving page the same time Robin does. He picks it up with deft fingers even though his hands are armored. Robin has to peer over his shoulder to look at the contents.

 "What is it?" Chrom asks, striding over. "Any sign of Plegian magic or…?"

 "No, Milord," Frederick furrows his eyebrows. "It's not magic that I know of. It's a symbol."

 Robin goes rigid. 

 Frederick holds up the paper with care, presenting a symbol identical to the one on Robin's hand in faded ink on the paper. "Have you seen this symbol before?"

 

\--

 

Robin was silent on the way back. 

 He didn't mention a word of the paper with the symbol. Not a word about how it could have possibly been something involving Plegia, something that Plegians _wanted_. 

 Chrom didn't mention that after poking around more in the papers (after Robin had gone away because he looked overwhelmed), a page torn and tattered beyond repair states that it was the mark of Grima.

  _A ghost, no memory, no family, and an apparent follower of Grimleal._

 What a turn of events. 

 They returned to camp without any bumps along the way. (It nearly seems like the world is pausing for Robin to mull over this.) The Shepherds either retire to their rooms or mess around the campfire. Chrom himself heads to the meeting tent, Robin absentmindedly following.

 The tent seems more gloomy than it usually is. Robin looks like his mind is out of this world and into another galaxy. Chrom sighs heavily, sits down, and waits for him.

 What are the chances? And how could he have not _noticed?_ Robin's cloak, a cloak that is a deep purple with gold trimmings, isn't coincidentally similar with Plegian mages. How could he have not recognized the Mark of Grima, either?

 Robin is a Plegian. _Was_ a Plegian. He was _possibly_ part of a cult. He _probably_ could have wanted Ylisse's demise. 

 If he had realized earlier, would he have _accepted_ Robin?

 He double takes at the thought. How could he _think_ of Robin in such a way? Robin isn't any different now. He's still a tactician, a ghost, a wanderer, a person filled with curiosity. He marvels at the stars every night, for Gods' sake. How could he think that Robin would be his _enemy?--_

 Robin lets out a shuttering breath, pulling Chrom from his thoughts.

 "Are… Are you okay?" Chrom asks carefully. Robin still looks really shaken from seeing the symbol.

 "Sure," he says in a voice way too steady for someone with his hands shaking. "It's… just… I don't know what Plegians would need to do that involves the symbol." He's not even looking at Chrom. He's glaring down to the back of his hands, his hand curled into a fist. "Did… Did you recognize it?"

 There's a pause and Chrom thinks Robin deserves to know. "It's the Mark of Grima. I… You were possibly part of a cult that worshiped Grima."

 Robin falters, looking at Chrom in alarm. "…What? I…" He starts, suddenly at loss for words. "I… I once wanted to revive the fell dragon? to destroy the _world?"_

 There's a certain franticness in his voice that keeps Chrom silent. He's never seen Robin really _panic._ Not when battles turn for the worst, not when someone nearly discovers his existence. The only thing that's come marginally close was when Gangrel saw him-- but that was just _cold fear._

 "So then… my family lives in Plegia? I've been fighting against my family?" He breathes, "What… what if we fought my family? What if they're _dead_ by my hands, Chrom?"

 "Robin, calms down," Chrom starts, rising from his seat. "You don't need to panic, you're not one of them anymore."

 Robin pauses to think. "But I'm _still_ one of them."

 "No, you're _not_." Chrom presses, stepping towards Robin. "You're not apart of this cult anymore, even if they symbol marks your hand. You don't want the world to be destroyed, you don't want to revive the fell dragon. You're not a Grimleal. You are still _Robin_. The master tactician of the Shepherds."

 "A Grimleal," Robin snorts, his knuckles white as he clenches his fists at his side, "A Grimleal tactician leading a group of Ylissean soldiers. How ironic is _that?"_

 "Listen, Robin," Chrom tries, "The fact that you _might have_ been a Grimleal means nothing--"

 "It _does!_ " He cuts in, backing off. "I am your _enemy_ , Chrom. The proof is right here!" He holds up his trembling hand, fist clenched tightly. 

 Something breaks in him. Chrom reached out and takes Robin's hand in both of his,  squeezing them. "You're not. You don't even believe yourself when you say that."

 Robin looks down, his hand curling in on Chrom's. "I… don't," he wheezes, "I don't know what to _do_ now."

 "What you do," Chrom begins, letting go of Robin's hand, "is continue on as if knowing this doesn't change anything. Because it doesn't."

 

\--

 

He hasn't seen Robin in days.

 He's not in the mess hall to observe, he's not in the sparring field to wander about the weaponry, he's not in the storage room to swap tomes and texts he's already read, he's not in his room for the battle meetings. Something is wrong.

 Was it because of what they found at the ruins? Had he actually convinced himself that he was a villain and _left?_ He'd go out and find him and knock some sense into him if he had the time and--

 And of course, he can't do anything about it.

 Chrom's been incredibly good at not letting his worry show. No one else would know what his worry is directed to-- so he just can't let it show. If they don't see it, they don't worry. But he can't exactly hide the bags beneath his eyes from when he stays up all night, waiting and worrying for Robin and working on tactics. Alone. How long has it been since he had to work on tactics by himself--?

 "Milord, stop it."

 Chrom blinks in start, looking to Frederick. The stern look on his face has a twinge of concern, unnerving Chrom.

 "You're doing it again." He motions to Chrom's arm where he's been viciously digging his fingers into his biceps. He immediately pulls back, rubbing at the tender skin as angry red crescents glow against it.

 "Sorry," Chrom says uselessly, clipped. It's been happening a lot more. He would cross his arms, enter deep thought and his fingers would slowly but surely dig into his skin. Has he been slipping up in covering his worry? He really needs to stop doing that--

 " _Milord._ "

 He looks up again, realizing that he had just been glaring daggers into the floorboards. Wow. He's really losing his ability to hide his stress.

 "Ah. Um. Sorry?" He says, grinning weakly. "I've got a lot on my mind."

 "Have you been sleeping well?" Frederick asks, never faltering.

 "The most recent tactics have been biting a chunk of my sleep away, but I still do." A white lie. He sleeps little more than a hour a night, if he's lucky. Tactics and worrying relentlessly takes a toll.

 Frederick frowns at him. "Milord," he presses, folding his arms. "I thought I told you that you can confide in me."

 "I-- I know," Chrom chuckles, because this whole situation is ridiculous and there's _no way_ Frederick would believe in a ghost tactician. "It's nothing. This war is just getting to me."

 Frederick's armor clinks as he shifts. "I know I do not ask you to tell me things you already are not willing to, but you obviously haven't been resting well and everyone is beginning to be concerned for you." He casts Chrom a melancholy look, one that shakes him. "What's wrong?"

 Should… should he tell him? Should he let someone know that a ghost has been hanging around the Shepherds? Not only that, but said ghost is their Master Tactician? Should he let it be possible that Frederick might think he's finally lost his marbles?

 But how much longer _can_ he keep it a secret? Frederick already has suspicions and he's sure so do others. And the fact that Robin is _missing_ is literally eating him alive.

 His fingers dig into his bicep once again as he says quietly, "Alright. Just. Not here."

 No one in the mess hall notices their leave. The door shuts soundly behind Frederick as they move down an empty hallway. Chrom clears his throat nervously.

 "I, um…" Chrom starts. Frederick seems rattled that he's seeing Chrom finally lay down his worries. "Before I say anything, I… It may be hard to believe, but i'm not losing my mind. I swear.

 "… okay, so you remember back when I asked you if people were messing with my stuff all those months ago? Someone was. It… It was Robin."

 "Robin?" Frederick echoes, frowning. "I haven't met a 'Robin' around here."

 "That's the thing," Chrom continues, "Robin… Robin's a ghost. I didn't believe it at first but he showed me that he could faze through things and all that-- I don't know how, but I'm the only one who can see him? That's why you saw no one when you walked in the other day; I was talking with Robin. He's also our sorta-kinda tactician? I did lie about not finding a master tactician, but how was I mean to explain it to you that I'm relying on someone who's dead?"

 Frederick blinks wide-eyed at the load of information. Chrom winces inwardly. It sounds ridiculous out loud. He's silent as he processes everything, making Chrom nervous.

 "A… ghost." 

 "Yep. A ghost."

 "And how does this come to you losing sleep?"

 Chrom nearly stumbles at the sheer suddenness. "Um, he, uh, went missing? I haven't seen him in days and normally he and I work on tactics together. It's been since a day after we left the ruins at the Frontier."

 "A ghost is making you lose sleep?"

 "Yes? How are you taking this so well?"

 Frederick raises an eyebrow. "It explains a lot. Lady Lissa was convinced you've lost it when she heard you speaking to yourself the other day. It explains the other night, and when you fought with Gangrel. Additionally, I can see how much this distresses you."

 Deflating, Chrom murmurs, "So, there it is. I've been worried about Robin this whole week. He had been freaked out by the Mark of Grima we saw at the ruins. The symbol was on the back of his hand and… he hadn't taken the news well."

 "A Grimleal ghost was following you around?" Frederick's lip curls.

 "He didn't know," Chrom adds in quickly, "If he _was_ apart of it, he didn't know. He was an amnesiac. He didn't even know his name when I came across him."

 It doesn't take a smart person to tell Frederick is suspicious. "An amnesiac ghost. You had an amnesiac ghost do our tactical plans?"

 "Yes? Gods, Frederick, but he's _missing_. We _have_ to find him."

 "What would we tell everyone? 'Lord Chrom wills us to go on a mission for a ghost?' I doubt everyone's going to accept it as well as I."

 "I… know. I just…" Chrom's eyes drop in resignation, "It is selfish, but only _I_ was there for him. I can't just… abandon him. He… he relied on me. He's my best friend, I dare say, I can't just _leave_ him."

 Theres a moment of silence. He can see the gears turning Frederick's head as he goes over the situation. Frederick sighs. "We'll see what we can do. Until then, I may do tactics with you to lift you of such a burden."

 Chrom smiles, "Thank you. I'm sorry I didn't confine in you earlier."

 He nods. "Me too."

 


	2. somewhere (better than nowhere)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i told myself i'd finish this up and post it earlier but haha what else did i expect of myself
> 
> I don't think I explained it previously, but this chapter is literally the last chapter but retold from Robin's pov? Sorry, that probably sounds a bit dull, but I've taken out a few scenes and added new ones, so it's not really the same, I guess? They just run the same time, if that makes sense?
> 
> Also! I'm pretty sure you can conclude it, but Lucina and all that isn't in this? I couldn't really fit her and the other things in without making things too complex and muddy, so I just did away with it;;
> 
> And thank you all for the comments and kudos?? I apologize if this doesn't really reach up to expectations but hahah;;; 
> 
> Robin kinda stresses a lot during this (i mean, who wouldn't) and he hallucinates at one point. Just a warning if that makes any of you queazy or uncomfortable!
> 
> Feel free to ask me anything if you don't understand!;; Enjoy!

When he came to, he couldn't think of anything.

It took a while for his mind to process something. It was bright outside, the sun bearing down on him with little mercy. If he turned his head, he could see a field. Blades of grass stood before his eyes, swaying gently in the wind, tickling his cheek and nose. He didn't know where he was.

Sitting up, he notices notices a heavy cloak that's probably too heavy for this weather resting on his shoulders. His feet are bare. His pants are loose and rippling in the wind. Unruly white hair lingers in front of his eyes-- he runs a hand through it to fix it, seeing the wind has fun tussling it up.

 _Maybe I should look to see if there's anyone nearby…_ he thinks after glancing about once again. He doesn't recognize this field, and he at least would've had enough common sense to not fall asleep in some field he'd wander into. 

He stands a bit shakily, his legs aching from either over-use or disuse. Wiping his hands on his cloak, something on the back of his hand catches his eye. It's a symbol on the back of his right hand.

 _What is that?_ he thinks, raising his hand to scrutinize. _Where'd I get such a strange mark?_ It seems like six eyes in a formation with lines connecting them. He tries to rub it off, but to no avail-- it just won't go away. So it's a tattoo? A brand? When did he get a--

A rush of panic comes over him suddenly; he doesn't _remember_ having a tattoo. He doesn't remember if he got one. He doesn't remember much of _anything_ , he realizes with a growing horror. _What happened-- did I fall hard or something? And I just… Forgot? Everything?_

_Who am I, then?_

He closes his eyes and _thinks_ , trying to recall anything from moments before he opened his eyes. But all he can think of is just his utter horror as it dawns upon him. _I have amnesia. I'm lost and I have amnesia._

There's another gust of warm wind and he thinks, _I should probably start moving if I want to get help…_ So, he decides to walk in a direction and hopes he'll come across someone. He hopes he'll come across someone.

 

\--

 

The amount of relief he feels when he spots a person with blaring red hair in the distance was immeasurable. He had spent _hours_ walking the field, and after he found a dirt road, walked a few more hours. (His legs feel like jelly and he's pretty sure he _can't_ stop walking now.) Now there's a person nearby and _maybe_ they can help him. Maybe tell him where he is, or where he can get help-- just,  _something._

"H-Hey!" he shouts, voice cracking slightly from disuse. He winces at the noise, but waits to see a notion of acknowledgement from the merchant. There isn't, so he calls out again as he strides a bit faster.

He's getting a bit frustrated at the lack of response, even though he's only a short distance away. "Are you ignoring me?" he asks as he approaches. He doesn't remember any encounters before hand with people, but he didn't think people were particularly _mean_. The merchant doesn't turn her head, instead shifting the bag on her back. There's a collection of swords handles poking out from the bag and there's a jangle whenever she takes a step.

She _genuinely_ doesn't seem to notice him as he matches her pace. Either she has terrible awareness or she's deaf, which would be an _awful_ attribute to have as a merchant. 

"Hello?" he tries again, stepping into what he hopes is the peripheral of her vision. Again, she doesn't take notice. He waves his hand before her, hoping to catch her attention. She doesn't respond, stilling looking forward and humming a tune he doesn't know. Maybe-- maybe she's in a trance? But her eyes are too clear for her to be unaware.

He crosses his arms, scowling, "You're awfully good at ignoring me. But, if you'd be so gracious, can you tell me where I am?"

The merchant doesn't bat an eye, and he's nearing the end of his patience. He reaches out to grab her shoulder, aiming to stop her trek. "Look, I don't know what I did, but can you--" 

When his hand passes through her shoulder, she shivers and says aloud, "Whoo, it got chilly suddenly. Strange." 

He comes to a halt and she passes by him without a clue. He suddenly feels very, very cold (is that _possible_ for him now?) as he holds his hand to his face. 

And-- there's a very vague look of transparency to his skin. 

A wave of sickness and panic crashes over him, nearly making him double over. 

 _I-- I… am I… dead? A ghost? Is that… that's why…_ he thinks, his thoughts mashing together. His hands shake violently in front of him and he has to remember to breathe (does he even have to anymore?). _Maybe… maybe it's just a trick-- maybe it's magic, and..._

But he can't convince himself otherwise.

 _I… I'm a ghost with amnesia… and… what…_ he swallows, clenching his fists to get a hold of himself, _what am I meant to do now?_

An emotion he can't pinpoint resonants through his whole body. What _is_ he going to do now? No one can see him, he doesn't have anywhere he can _go._  Even if he _had_ memories, and had somewhere to _go,_  what would he do if the people he knew couldn't see him? Is he… is he just meant to _exist?_

He looks to see the merchant still humming, strolling along. She's a fair distance away from him now, slowly making way up a hill. 

What's he going to do now? Wander around? Try to recover his memories, and then that might send him to the afterlife like how it works in fables and story books? 

He doesn't know, but he bites his tongue and runs over to her. If he's going to wander, he's going to do with someone, even though they don't know he is there. Maybe then he'll find a purpose. It's certainly better than wandering in a field, alone. At least he has... some form of company.

 

\--

 

"Ah, we better get movin', a battle's said to be happenin' around here later," a burly merchant says, turning to pack his items. 

A few merchants groan at the news, protesting a number of reasons why they shouldn't move, but start to pack up regardless. He glances up, frowning at the burly merchant as he took one final look at the strange tome someone was starting to pack away. 

Anna grumbles her protest as well, pulling out her bag and beginning to cram the various swords into it. The bag barely seems like it could fit all the swords, but she manages somehow. She had come across this band of traveling merchants the other day and had joined in for the time being. He, of course, wandered around with them since she joined. They were a group of odd people-- they sold just about anything, from swords to food to clothes to tomes. 

(He only knew her name from when she introduced herself-- he can't remember many of the other merchants' names, however, because there were so many. Should he feel bad? He doesn't _know them_ , and can't exactly speak with them, so--)

"Who's gonna be fighting? Or is it one of those border skirmishes?" a tome merchant asks, taking the tome he was observing earlier and stashing it away. If he remembers correctly, this guy is named Senno, and tends to sell the tomes he collects for unreasonable prices but always somehow gets business. 

"Most likely a border skirmish, from what the towns folk are sayin'," the burly merchant, Heugno, says, "but apparently it's different this time, 'cause a militia from Ylisstol are fightin'. They was in the area and the Plegians are throwin' threats over." 

Anna huffs, waving her hand dismissively, "Don't they know they will always be taunting them? Fighting them is practically useless. But hey, we might get business if the militia happens to come by."

A few other merchants agree begrudgingly but nonetheless continue packing. He notices a few townspeople flitting around, maybe to buy last minute things before they hole up in their homes before the battle. It's never safe to be out when there's a battle going on nearby, he learned-- the battle could always extend to the town and no one wants to be caught up in that. 

After a while of packing, a runner from town comes by to tell them to steer clear of the field opening to the west of them-- apparently the battle had begun and it wasn't safe to approach at all, especially because stragglers were merciless when it came to anyone crossing paths with them. Once all of the merchants finally closed up shop, they begin to move towards the North, aiming to go past the battle area and then head West. 

The trek is silent for the most part. Dusk is breaking when they reach a fork in the road, heading to North instead of West. Even from where they are, if they were to listen close enough, they could hear the cries of the dying from the battle. It's a low, waning cry of the dying, and it casts a dreary air among the caravan. They look down to the road, trying to block out the noise.

It's awful, but morbid curiosity is what keeps making him glance to the West. It's wishful thinking and kind of _dumb_ now that he thinks about it, but maybe if he were to take a tiny look, it might help him remember something--? He'll take anything at this point. 

He glances to Anna, seeing the girl joke lightly with Senno. If he's fast enough, he could go take a look and be back before the band moves too far. 

And that's what he does-- he drifts away from the merchant band and hurries towards the West, towards the battlefield. 

He goes past the brush of the forest, his clothes phasing through bushes and branches like they're breezes in the wind. He doesn't understand how his clothes are an extension of his ghostly self, but he's not going to question it. It's not like he's ever going to get an answer. And-- it's quite handy right now-- it'd be a death sentence if he were to alarm someone of his approach. Well. He's  _dead,_ it can't really a death sentence, can it--?

There's less of the yelling and swords clashing than from before, which leads him to believe that the battle is dying down. He can see the field in the clearing in front of him, and-- 

Never before has he seen so much blood.

(That could be a lie-- amnesia is a nuisance when trying to express things.)

Body after body litters the field amongst the blood-- is it possible for that many people to _bleed_ so much? The people he assumes are the victors are off to the side, but they looked so grim and exhausted. If he didn't know any better and didn't see the brigands lying _dead_ , he'd think that _they_ were the ones to have lost this battle.

He walks aimlessly amongst the victorious, taking in their emotions and overall exhaustion. A pair of light haired girls rush about the ranks, staffs in their hands that healed people before them when it glows. There was no white noise of people talking aside from the girls asking questions about their wounds. The air was heavy, both with rain soon to come, and the weight of the dead.

It was… solemn, to say the least. In books or legends, winning a battle was to be grand, _exciting_ ; they should be _celebrating_. But even he, who can't recall his own name, knows that won battles are never like they are said to be.

He doesn't know why he's still lingering around here-- he needs to go if he wants to catch up with the merchant band, and the bodies are making his stomach churn. But… he can't go just yet. He doesn't know _why_.

These people are interesting. They are soldiers, but are more tightly-knit than normal soldiers. They were grim to silence, but they leaned against each other to quietly mourn. It makes his gut twist in envy. He feels bad for reacting in such a way, but… how is he meant to feel, being among people, but not at the same time?

It's an awful feeling, but he's beginning to realize he needs to deal with it even though it feels like it's eating him alive. 

He catches sight of a pair of people standing off to the side of the group, near where corpses seemed still new. They seem to be important people-- they speak in hushed voices and no one moves over to disrupt them. They are both bloodied, though only one is visually wounded; he wonders why this guy hasn't moved to get healed.

The wounded one has blue hair and a certain air about them that he can tell means the guy is important. The other is armored and also carries an air of authority, but seems inferior to the blue haired individual. There's a sword unlike any other in the blue haired man's hands, and from the distance he's at, he can tell that the man's grip is unexplainably tight on the hilt. 

There's a brand on the blue haired man's upper arm, just on his shoulder. It reminds him of his own mark, even though they look nothing alike. He looks down accordingly, tracing the pattern with his eyes once again. 

When he looks up again, he makes eye contact with the blue haired man briefly. 

A flash of various emotions cross the man's face, making his stomach plummet. He ducks down behind a couple of people instinctively, heart stuttering in shock. _He saw me. He-- he's going to--_

 _No,_ he thinks harshly, over panic rising in his throat. He forces himself to calm down, hand clutching his cloak front tightly, as if pressing his heart to slow down. _He can't see me. No one here can._ He looks up, reassuring himself that no one around him is looking at him. Instead, a few of them are looking at the blue haired man, alarm on their faces.

He glances towards the man, seeing the armored one beside him look around frantically, wondering what got the other so conflicted. After a moment, the blue haired man waves him dismissively, letting the people are him relax immensely. He still looks unsettled and tense, and keeps glancing to where Robin had dived into hiding from, as if expecting something to reappear there. 

He frowns and stands cautiously once again, but the blue haired man turned to talking with the other.

 _I… I need to know,_ he settles.

 

\--

 

The group is a vigilante militia called the Shepherds. No one is even close to being alike in this group; there are so _many_ different personalities and colors in the mess hall that it's a bit overwhelming on the senses.

He had followed them back to where their garrison is located. He's learned bits and pieces about everyone along the way: the one that's nearly engulfed in armor and barely is noticed is Kellam. The clumsy pegasus rider with hair the color of straw is Sumia. Miriel is a mage with a big floppy hat and an attitude. Ricken is also a mage, but looks to be just a boy. Lissa is one of the blond healer girls; she's as bright as the color of her eyes, but people seem to be wary of the way they speak to her for some reason. Sully is the red haired horse rider and Stahl is the olive haired horse rider. Virion is a suave but arrogant archer, and Vaike is a brutish axe-man. Maribelle is the other healer; stuck up but with a soft spot for Lissa.

And... then there's the leaders. He didn't want to get too close, just incase the blue-haired man actually _does_  see him. ( _Can't harm him to be cautious._ ) But what he does know is that Frederick, the paladin with such a stern air it's nerve wrecking, is a lieutenant. The blue-haired man is supposedly Chrom: a master swordsman, and the leader of the group.

They're incredibly loud when all in one room, too.

He lingers, watching the group fighting, drinking, eating, talking,  _anything,_ really, in front of him. There's a lot happening, so much that he can't really make sense of it all. He sees some people playing chess, some drinking a bit too heavily, there's also Stahl eating enough food for two-- maybe three-- people. The food looks  _good_ , too, he can't exactly blame Stahl for digging in-- meat glazed perfectly with gravy, vegetables pan fried to a proper golden color,--

That makes his stomach twist. _I can't eat food ever again. Not like I remember what anything tastes like,_ he thinks begrudgingly. _This sucks._

Being here isn't better than being with the merchants, he's realized. It's… a bit more _boring_ here, if he thinks about it. Back with the merchants, there was always the white noise of people socializing or making deals. There, tomes were left open to display to possible costumers were readily available for him to read, the intricate etching on sword blades, and an abundance of foods he wondered endlessly about the taste and origins of. There was always something to _look_ at, to watch, or whatever. Here, everyone is messing around and there isn't much he can observe-- well, there's  _too_ much to observe, and it all just becomes a huge mass of commotion. It's overwhelming.

 _I'm really coming to regret ever leaving the merchants,_ he thinks, _I wonder if I'll ever cross paths with them again._

He sighs and moves off the wall he's been leaning, if you can call just barely resting on to not phase through it _leaning_ , against. Earlier in his initial exploration of this place, he saw a hall leading to a bunch of rooms. _Maybe_ he could find something interesting down there.

After looking in a few rooms, he realizes that they're the sleeping quarters for the militia. He can't identify whose is whose-- he doesn't know these people enough to do so (maybe he'll stay long enough to tell?)-- but he does find a few things that catch his attention. Maybe he's invading their privacies, but it's not like he's digging through their stuff to find dirt on them. And, who's to _say?_  He can't exactly spill any secrets he finds. Bummer. He could have so much blackmail if he could.

Near the end of the hall, he comes across two room that is much more grand than the others. The beds are larger than any of the others, there are multiple bookshelves lining the walls. One of them is full with frilly items and things that most likely belong to a younger girl, while the other is more refined and regal.

He lingers in the latter for a while longer. There's a desk with multiple maps strewn across it and bottles of ink. There's a larger map on the wall with the continents named. He moves closer to the desk, peering down to the few maps opened up. There's a small booklet to the side with notes. Upon looking closer, he can see that they're notes on strategies and what formations they should do during battle. 

It crosses his mind that he's in the captain's-- Chrom's-- room. If the bigger rooms are for the commanders, then… 

 _Frederick doesn't really look like the man to like pink that much,_ he thinks. He dismisses the thought, _Frederick can like what ever he wants, he's a knight for godssake,_  to read the notes more. 

He quirks an eyebrow at a few, glancing to the maps when it's called for. For the most part, the strategies are good and thought-out, and search for the fastest and safest way to end a battle. But, there's a few gaping holes. On the spot, he can think of a few more tactics that could work out better. He feels a bit cocky thinking that, but--

He reaches out and proceeds to un-scroll a map, easily finding what he needed. He skims the terrain and looks back to the notes, his finger moving to place the units visually. There's a few questionable spots, but it's reasonable because there's no way to know what the enemy plans. ( _But placing someone on horseback near a steep hill is a bit ridiculous…_ he criticizes absently.)

And-- there's a set of heavy footsteps from out in the hall, approaching quickly. He jerks violently, knocking down a few things in his panic. It only then makes him realize that he can physically _touch_ items, _when could I do that!_  but he pushes the thought away when the footsteps pause in front of the door. 

Booking it to the wall, he jumps and _phases_ through it. ( _Thank the Gods I can do that--!)_ He stumbles as he lands in the room over, and would've cracked his head on a bed post if he were actually alive. There's the sound of the door knob turning in the room he fled from, and he presses himself against the wall to listen in. Only now does he realize he shouldn't have panicked so much-- _he's a ghost no one can see him--_ but he's grateful for the reaction time. 

The person in the room lets out a grumble-- one that seems exhausted rather than from agitation. He can only assume the person is Chrom. There's the sound of unclasping and something heavy being set against something wooden, maybe a chair or a table. The footsteps pause and he holds his breath. Papers shuffle and pens clink in jars, but nothing else happens.

 _I… I can keep looking at those if he doesn't notice,_ he thinks. Something bubbles up inside of him, something akin to excitement. _If I keep following this group, I can keep looking at those. That can give me something to do!_

 

\--

 

One morning, Chrom calls out to the mess hall that he, Frederick, and Lissa will be leaving to visit the Ylisstol castle.

A few people shout out jests as they prepare to leave, but none of them rise to join them. He leans against the wall, glancing around in curiosity. _What kind of business do they have at the castle--? And why only them?_ he wonders. He knows that Chrom and Frederick are the heads of the group, and it's possible they're going to discuss something with the ruler, maybe about those border skirmishes they always seem caught up in, but why would _Lissa_ need to go, too?

They head for the door, and he pauses, watching as they leave. There-- there hadn't been any battles or skirmishes over the last few days, so there hadn't been anything to for him to pick through and look at. Chrom hadn't been leaving any maps out recently, nor any notes. He's been stuck doing nothing for the last few days, bored out of his mind.

He decides to tag along in the spur of the moment.

There's a carriage at the entrance of the garrison when they leave. It's of incredible craftsmanship and of grand scale-- definitely worthy enough to be used by nobles. If he was alive, there would be _no possible way_ he could ever get near something that grand. But as a ghost, he _can._

The horses seem to snort in his direction when he passes, but it's probably his imagination. Lissa coos at it when she passes, patting one kindly on its thigh. It knickers at her and the chauffeur, a man whose adorning clothes just as magnificent as the carriage, smiles kindly at her. The three climb into the carriage, which is probably as showy as it is on the outside. 

Once they're in, he hesitantly flits on. It doesn't matter if he's dead or alive-- he doesn't feel worthy of being in the _vicinity_ of such a thing, more or less sitting _on_ it. Even if no one can see him, he feels incredibly underdressed to be sitting at the coach's seat. He absentmindedly pulls back his cloak, obscuring it from sight (as if there was anyone to see it).

The chauffeur is nice company, though he doesn't know there's someone beside him.

The landscape gradually changes as they go along. The dirt trails soon become a cobblestone path and soon enough they're in the city of Ylisstol. It's a bustling capital city-- the streets are lined with market shops and the sound of laughing is constant. It's bright and the sky is clear, making everything seem so much… _better_. More joyous, maybe. He wonders what it'd be like if _he_ were actually down there, buying those apples or bartering with the seamstress. Would the energy be infectious to him, too?

A few people whisper and watch the carriage with reverence as it goes by. The carriage certainly is more than noble enough to catch the attention of the townsfolk-- or was it because they knew militia leaders were inside? He wouldn't know. There's not exactly an indicator that there's a captain of a militia in the carriage, but-- maybe it's been announced or something? That's-- pretty hoity-toity, especially for a militia.

After a few gateways and guard checks, the palace comes rolling into view. It's absolutely _incredible_. He's sure he'd never be able to see something so beautiful if he were alive-- there's no way he'd be that high of a status to even _approach_ it. It has arches upon arches and grand columns lining the outside of it. He can see the edge of gardens that most likely extend infinitely around it. There's no way to describe it to it's full glory.

The palace is, of course, stunning in size once they roll up to the front of it. The arches are even more grand, and he can now see the delicate carving and structuring on the columns. He cranes his head back to look at the top of it, gaping like a fool. The grand doorway is open, and it lets him peer far down into the halls, which don't seem to end.

A few servants and guards welcome the carriage, opening the doors. The three greet the servants with such familiarity that he quirks an eyebrow-- maybe they're here often to discuss things with the ruler? It makes sense, since those border skirmish could pose a problem. Thanking the chauffeur silently, he hops off and lingers far behind the group, mainly to take in the palace at its fullest.

He nearly blanches at the size of the halls. Stewards line the halls, greeting the trio meters in front of him. They seem so casual, so indifferent to the sheer scale of everything.  _They have to come here often,_ he thinks,  _but still-- such familiarity?_

They soon enter a room that most likely is the whole size of the garrison by two. There's a grand flight of stairs that lead to a marvelous throne, the throne that obviously only a ruler could sit upon. Columns line the room, leading to what probably is a huge network of rooms and hallways.

At the top of the stairs, there's a lady speaking quietly with a guard who seems to be of higher rank than others. Everything about this woman's just radiates her power, her grandness and everything above. Her hair is a shade duller than Lissa's, cascading in front of her shoulders. A extravagant crown sits upon her head, though the crown is something he's never seen before. She is the ruler, without a doubt.

The three ascend the flight of stairs without a pause in their trek. He stops at the bottom, worried he might be spotted ( _a really dumb worry_ , he thinks) and that he really, _really_ doesn't deserve to be in such a close proximity of the ruler.

Abruptly, Lissa lets out a loud squeal, startling him. She runs up the last few steps, rushing towards the queen and _throws_ herself at her.

 _What is she doing?!_ he balks, panic washing through him. The queen-- by gods, are the guards going to think she's trying to _attack her?_  His head swings around, waiting for the sirens to go off, for the guards to come flooding out and to forcibly _remove--_

The ruler smiles softly and returns the hug. His rushing mind comes to a stuttering halt.

Chrom snorts in laughter in a good nature, stepping onto the platform. Frederick smiles (a phantom of a smile, but still there) and moves to the side, as if he shouldn't directly approach the queen. Lissa releases the queen from the hug, and Chrom moves to give the queen one of his own.

His mind reels as he rushedly comprehends everything. _They… They have some sort of relationship._ When she and Chrom let go of each other, he notices with a start that the brand on Chrom's shoulder is on her forehead. And it  _clicks._

 _They're related._  It dawns upon him, things beginning to connect in his mind. _That's why they're so casual here. They've grown up here._ It explains why both Chrom and Lissa are held at a different reverence than everyone else in the garrison. _Chrom is a prince. Lissa is a princess._ _And… Frederick would be a personal guard? Steward? I don't know._

He suddenly feels like he's invading a private moment, something he shouldn't witness. It creeps in his skin, an uncomfortableness he can't explain. He ducks away into a hall, and walks briskly and aimlessly down it. He knows he's going to get lost in this maze of a castle, but he's overwhelmed and needs to get _away._

The halls eventually spill him outside, through a few open grand doorways that seem to be just about everywhere in this castle. The gardens live up to his expectations-- the hedges are heads taller than himself and are so perfectly trimmed, most likely worked on and neutered daily. Flowers of any and every kind blossom in carefully arranged patches. There's an abundance of trees with a canopy, trees that would be perfect to picnic beneath on warm days. Stone pathways lead to different parts of the garden and he's sure he'd never leave if he entered.

The walk to the gardens had helped clear his head. He steps into an area that's just before a fork of pathways into the garden, a few stone benches rest before bushes of brilliant roses on either side of the pathways. Stepping towards them, he glances around at the flowers with a small hope in him. _Maybe the flowers could trigger a memory?_ It's pretty dumb to think, but going on without knowing his own name doesn't settle right with him. _Anything_ would help, really. Nothing has sparked so far, even with the garrison or Ylisstol or the castle grounds. He just needs _something_. Even something small, like whether he hated flowers or not. 

A bird's chirp from nearby pulls him out of his thoughts. Following the noise, he's drawn towards a bundle of rose bushes. His fists loosen up from previously-- he didn't know he was clenching them-- when he peers inside the tangle of thorns. A nest of sparrows is settled neatly in a gap between the thorns. The birds don't move at his approach, and he's actually thankful for once he can't disturb them.

"Halt! State your name and your business!"

The birds take flight as he goes rigid at the booming voice. He jerks to see _Chrom_ standing there, a thunderous expression on his face.

For a brief moment, Robin is terrified. A fear creeps in his veins, and he tries to push it down.

 _Is there someone nearby? Or is he possibly…?_ he thinks, but no, Chrom's navy eyes are focused on _him._

His heart is pounding in his ears and he isn't quite sure why. He glances around the bushes for _anyone_ else that Chrom would possibly call out because there's _no way_ _he can see me_ , but he doesn't find anyone. There's  _no one around._

"Are you going to answer me? I will remove you from here if I need to," Chrom threatens, voice like stone, stepping forward. Panic settles in his veins because _he can actually see me it wasn't a fluke those weeks back._

"I, um-- wait--" he splutters, backing up to the bushes. Nearly losing his footing, he bends awkwardly to avoid touching the branches because he'll just phase through and he doesn't have a _clue_ how Chrom would react to that. 

Even though Chrom can't do harm to him, he is fucking _terrifying_. His form is somewhere caught in between ready to attack and defensive, and he could flip between either in the snap of a second. His gloves creak against the handle of his sword, standing in a position that would block any path of escape he would have when he approaches. _How on Earth am I going to get out of this?_

"Well?" Chrom presses. He meets his eyes even though everything in him is literally shaking and wanting to _run._

"It's, um, hard to explain?" He says, voice shaking like his hands. It seemed like a good answer when he first thought it, but the emotion that flashes violently across the other's face shows him that he was _wrong._

"Bull. You _will_ explain yourself, right now."

There is no room for negotiation in the tone of his voice.

Something from the corner of his eye shifts. Glancing over briefly, he can see it's Lissa-- she's sporting a bright expression and leans over the railing. His stomach plummets, cause she's looking directly at _Chrom_ and she can't see  _him,_ and her mouth opens and she-- "Chrom! Who are you talking to? Are the flowers _that_ interesting?" She calls out. He wants to shrink in on himself now because _there's no way he's going to get out of this_. "Emmeryn said that we might as well stay and eat since she thinks your meeting might take the rest of the day."

 _I might as well die again,_ he thinks. Chrom's expression doesn't falter at all-- it's really impressive, but increasingly terrifying. The quiet ones are the scariest, aren't they. He calls out a reply but it falls deaf upon his ears. _How can I save myself. I'm not going to make it out of this. Can I phase out of existence? Would that apply? Can ghosts die?_

The second Lissa is gone and out of hearing range, Chrom _spins_ on him. _"What_ did she mean by that? She _couldn't see you?_ " he growls through clenched teeth. It literally takes everything in him not to show how terrified he is.

There is no way he can explain it without being confusing, especially because he doesn't know it _himself_ , so he just goes straight for it. "Um, about that…" he starts awkwardly, trying to keep his voice from wavering too much, because Chrom looks ready to _snap._  "You… are the only one who can see me? I think?" He sounds like he's questioning his own words and that’s _really_ not the effect he's going for.  _Aw hell._

"The _only one who can see you?_ From what? A mess up of a spell?" Chrom accuses, and suddenly his sword is out and the blade rests against his neck. Ghost or not, he can just  _feel it_ brushing his neck. He stills, keeping his eyes leveled with Chrom's because he's going to panic if he looks at the blade, whether it can harm him or not. _I wonder where ghosts go when they die-- if they die. Again_. "Are you trying to kill the Exalt?"

His thoughts halt. Chrom thought he was out to kill his _sister?_ No wonder he is literally prepared to shear his head off--

What was he meant to _respond_ with? If he was to try and kill the Exalt, why would he say that to someone with a _sword to his neck?_ And if he tried to say he wasn't, he'd be suspected of lying. He needs to think of _something_ to say because the way Chrom's eyes are narrowing and his arm shifting says that he's not going to wait for an answer. 

Raising his hands, he blurts, "No! I can't, even if I wanted to! Ah, I might as well just _show_ you--" It's a total risk, a _dumb fucking risk,_  but he reaches to the sword, and with everything he knows, _wills_ himself to phase through the steel. (If his hand decided in that exact moment not to work how he wanted it to and he actually touches the blade he's just as well might be a dead ghost standing.)

But his fingers blur at the contact of the sword, reforming as his hand passes through. He can't really look to see, but the way Chrom jerks away violently shows him everything.

He doesn't want to wait to see if Chrom makes any brash movements, especially when presented with, well, the _impossible,_  so he adds on quickly, "I'm kind of _dead,_ so if I even _had_ an ill-intention towards the Exalt, I couldn't do anything about it…"

There's a blaring silence after that and he doesn't have the guts to look up and see Chrom's expression.

He nearly thinks that Chrom's mind exited the realm and went beyond the skies when the other says, "…you're a… ghost?" He says it slowly, as if he's still trying to make sense of it. It sounds absolutely ridiculous when he says it. He cringes at it-- at everything in this situation, really.

The sword at his neck lowers slowly. Even though he didn't feel it, he still reaches up to rub at where the blade would've skimmed him. He suppresses a shiver. "Yes? I think I am."

Taking this moment to glance up, he sees the conflict on thoughts on Chrom's face. He winces. This could either be a bad thing or a good thing.

"Ah. Um." He starts awkwardly, "I… apologize, then, for thinking you would try to kill my sister."

It's very noble of him to apologize immediately, though the conflict on his face shows that he's not exactly sure if he's  _sure_ about saying that. "No-- it's a natural reaction. I'm sorry for appearing out of the blue. Sorta," he says back, just as awkward.

Something seems to ebb away on Chrom. He scrubs his face with his palm and sheaths his sword. "What is your name?" he asks, cautiously, as if trying to keep things in line in his mind.

He pauses, his fists tightening as he tried to find a proper answer. "Um. I don't remember. I'm… kind of an amnesiac."

For a brief moment, Chrom looks _overwhelmed_ , but it's gone as fast as it came. He glances towards the halls, shoulders dropping slightly. "Look, I need to--"

"Yeah, go, I apologize for holding you up," he says quickly. He nearly reaches out to push him to the halls but remembers he can't and that Chrom is royalty and _why would you push royalty._

Chrom nods a small thanks and hurries to the patio. He doesn't look back.

 

\--

 

Next time he's wandering around the mess hall, Chrom actually catches his eye.

He blinks dumbly, narrowly floating out of the range of Vaike's broad swing of his arm. (He recently learned how to float-- it was nice to finally give his feet a rest.) It's the first time Chrom's even spotted him, never mind the fact he's just recently gotten to floating around instead of stepping around the crowded floors.

It doesn't take a smart person to know that Chrom is suspicious of him. Chrom stiffens a bit whenever he sees him, even catching the attention of other shepherds. More than once Frederick has asked if he was alright. Of course, Chrom always says he's fine, but there's no way he can explain himself and not sound crazy to other even _if_ he wanted to.

He floats over leisurely and almost hesitantly, still glancing around the room at random bursts of energy and conversation. No one really seems to be around Chrom at the moment, or really even looking at him. Strange for a person of such high class, both in militia and society, but he isn't going to complain about it.

Stepping onto the ground, he ceases to float and his cloak flutters down along with him. It's strange how floating works for him-- it's like he's jumped but never landed. His cloak floats up like there's no gravity in the room, and he simply just floats around. Being a ghost is pretty nifty at some points.

Chrom seems to be observing how it works as well, seeing that he's glancing from a divert angle. He's leaning against the bar's counter, arms crossed and watching the mess hall in front of him. Chrom doesn't straight up look at him, probably because to anyone else there wouldn't be anything to look at.

He settles against the bar a small distance away, moving his cloak so it doesn't bunch up against the counter. Chrom moves his gaze in his direction, but not directly. It would seem like he's looking at someone further down the bar, rather than at some ghost.  _He's really got this discreet thing down,_ he thinks, raising his eyebrows at the casual-ness of it all.

He's itching to ask questions. There are things he doesn't get about how this place works or what the boons and banes are of everyone. He doesn't recognize a few of the foods that the shepherds eat, he doesn't know the certain tomes Miriel and Ricken carry about. But something is keeping his mouth pressed into a line.

Maybe it's the _very_ subtle glare Chrom has fixed on him.

This, of course, is a very great time for Lissa to come bouncing up to Chrom.

He doesn't listen to what she's saying to Chrom because he actually respects their privacy and they speak to each other low enough so the noise of the garrison mutes them. Even though it's been days since he learned Lissa and Chrom were related _and_ a part of the royal family, he still hasn't found many similarities between the two. Between Emmeryn and Lissa, they have similar hair colors, eye colors, and face shape, but between them and Chrom? The only thing that made him connect the dots that they were siblings was from the symbol...

Lissa moves away after receiving a condescending pat on the shoulder from Chrom. He finds himself saying aloud: "I apologize for the abrupt question, but-- what is the symbol on your arm?"

Chrom blinks at him and looks down to his shoulder, eyes narrowing at the mark. He looks back up and his eyes scan over the vigilantes, and for a moment it seems like he won't answer. "It's the Mark of Naga. The entirety of the royal family has it," Chrom says lowly, not looking in his direction.

He frowns in thought and scoots a bit closer, noting that this is the most subtle and unnoticeable way from Chrom to communicate with him.

"Does Lissa not have one?" He asks, eyes following her as she bounces around the vigilantes, chatting along the way.

"She does, it's just not as obvious as mine or Emmeryn's," Chrom says, a bit defensive, "What about the symbol on your hand?"

He opens his mouth, but closes it quickly, instead raising his hand to trace the mark with his eyes again. "Good question," he says simply. 

 

\--

 

Some nights when it’s pitch black and not even Chrom is awake, he just thinks.

Usually he wanders around, but he's gone through every room in the garrison and he doesn't feel like heading towards nearby buildings. He's had the time-- it's not like he has anything to do as a ghost, and he's gotta make the weeks go by somehow.

He wishes he could sleep again. If he could, then he'd sleep the days away and be just as good as dead. But every time he's tried to close his eyes and _sleep,_ it's just that crappy state where his brain is too active for rest and just won't shut down. It's as good as just closing his eyes for a long time. Maybe he could take some of those elixirs for insomnia? or would it go straight through him? Would it even _work?_

The main room of the garrison is dark as he sits on a random table, staring out to the windows. The stars are bright outside and the moon is waning-- he briefly wonders if he ever watched the sky when he was alive. It's a strange concept to think about-- that there's a whole chunk of his life missing from his memory of when he was _alive._ Or maybe he's been a ghost this whole time? Maybe he just got major amnesia one day as a ghost and it just wiped everything clean. But then how would he have fallen _asleep_ in that field--?

He shakes the thought away physically. Every time he starts getting into this train of thought, his whole demeanor drops for days and it’s just an ugly feeling. 

Chrom hasn't said a thing whenever he's like that. Maybe he doesn't notice, or even care for that matter. In fact, Chrom doesn't really _say_ much to him. It's probably because he's still suspicious, but come _on--_ he's the only person who he can rely on for _anything_ and he's just--

The back of his hand burns with a rekindled itching and he wonders what's going to happen tomorrow.

 

\--

 

Chrom is an incredibly strong leader, he realizes. He's known it ever since he started following the Shepherds, but he's just reminded of it again.

They were on a march towards another border village (these Plegians are awfully good at disturbing these poor people…). The moon is nearing its highpoint in the sky when Chrom had decided that they should stop for the day. In a matter of time, everyone had settled down and were fast asleep in their collapsable tents, the fire they ate around previously smothered and still burning with small ambers. 

He finds himself wandering around the woods as the night goes on-- there wasn't much to do in the camp and he's gotta find _something_ to do. 

An owl hoots from nearby and he can't really help it but going to seek out the owl. He finds it fairly easily, perched on a branch of a high tree. It doesn't notice him, of course. It's just pretty amazing to see such vivid eyes in the darkness. 

Something shuffles from down below, startling him. He looks down cautiously, gathering his cloak so it doesn't float into his view. There-- there's a few people he doesn't recognize moving about the bushes, cursing and muttering to each other. Scowling, he dives down to listen in on their conversation-- if that's what'd you call it.

"I can't fuckin' believe this-- it's past midnight, I'm dead tired, and of course _I_ get chosen to go with you to spy on those fuckin' sheep herders." This goon looks like he's gone days without sleep. His hair is shaggy, just a straight up mess, and it looks like he hasn't bathed in years. He shoves aside the branches of a tree, only to have it swing back and smack him right in the face.

"Just _shut up_ , scumbag," the other snaps. This one isn't as gross looking as his partner, but he still doesn't look to pleasant. Both of them, he notices belatedly, have weapons strapped to their sides. "Their scouts are gonna hear us and then this will all be for nothing! So quit your yappin'!"

"Did I _ask_ for your opinion?" the ruffian growls. "Stop fuckin' bitchin' to me, then, if you want to be quiet! Cap's gonna be pissed if we're found."

 _"That's_ my whole _point."_

They curse and mutter for moments more until they see the clearing the Shepherds are currently situated. They grow quite, eyes scoping the edges of camp.

He does not like where this is going. 

"This is it, isn't it? Where those shepherds are?" the ruffian spats, glaring ferociously towards the nearest tent. The person on watch was on the other side of camp, our of sight to the ruffians, but the ruffians were out of sight to _them._ The more refined one nods.

"You go back and tell the boss we've found it. They're all out for the night-- if we hit them now, we'll have _guaranteed_ victory."

He does not like this at all.

The ruffian scoffs and does what the other says, but now pulls his short sword out to sheer the bushes instead of tramping through them. The refined ruffian rolls his eyes dramatically before dropping into a crotch behind a bush, peering for any movements in the camp.

He _has_ tell someone.

Darting back into the camp, he searches and easily finds Chrom's tent. It's a bit larger than most of the others, which is pretty much the only reason he can tell. Phasing through the cloth, he looks frantically around the tent for the one and only. 

Chrom looks really peaceful as he sleeps. Albeit his leg is thrown over the makeshift mattress and the blankets are tangled around him, he still seems to be in a deep slumber. He doesn't sleep well usually, right? At least that's what he's heard from lingering conversations between him and Lissa.

This is _not_ going to be fun.

"Chrom," he calls, wincing at the panic in his voice. Chrom doesn't stir at all, and he wonder just how far the enemy's camp is. _How much time do they have--_ "Chrom! Hey!" He raises his voice just barely, as if he's afraid of waking him up too quickly. Which, then, he realizes is fucking dumb, because _everyone's_ life is at risk and he's scared of waking up the captain too suddenly? This isn't the  _time_ to worry about that.  _"Chrom!_ Get _up!"_

Jerking slightly, Chrom only mumbles something unintelligible before rolling over. Something akin to annoyance grows inside of him at this. 

 _"Get UP!"_ He finally shouts, going for a pillow to pick up and smash against Chrom's face-- but Chrom wakes up just in time before he can even try to do such a thing.

Blinking blearily, Chrom doesn't look like he comprehends what's happening. "'wad duh yah need?" he slurs with exhaustion, rubbing his face after blinking rapidly, probably to focus his vision. SItting up, he barely looks like he knows where he is until he connects the pieces slowly.

"I truly, _honestly_ don't mean to wake you up but there are enemy forces on the way _here,"_ he blurts. The panic in his voice might have caught on, because Chrom's eyes finally seem to come in focus and his face immediately hardens into seriousness.

"What do you mean?"

"There are enemy spies on the outskirts of the camp. One went back and they're now retrieving the army to attack while the Shepherds sleep--"

Chrom swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up in one fluid motion. He forgos changing anything and grabs Falchion without second thought. "Which side of camp are they on?" he asks, his voice way too even for this situation.

He splutters, not really have anticipating this much compliance from a man who just woke up, "to the Northeast. They're just out of sight to the person on watch duty. There's only one of them right now but I'm not sure if reinforcements are nearby yet."

Chrom strides past him and out the tent flap, heading straight for the other commander tent. He follows, glancing in the direction he just said, searching for any movement.

Within seconds, Frederick is up and moving around to awake the other vigilantes. Chrom, on the other hand, moves towards the tree line. He, of course, follows.

"When did you discover them?" Chrom asks, so void of emotion that it's nearly terrifying.

"Just minutes ago. They might be the Plegian barbarians from the town you're heading towards."

Chrom hums, his grip tightening on Falchion's hilt. He watches as Chrom easily spots the ruffian spy hiding and makes way over towards them without a pause.

The ruffian shrieks at him, whipping out a broadsword to point at Chrom. "W-What! What are _you--_ "

In mere seconds, Chrom has his sword at the man’s neck, his eyes narrowing. _"I_ would like to ask you the same thing. Where is your camp? Just how many people did you plan on bringing here?"

It's not a very appropriate area to interrogated, but Chrom doesn't seem like he gives a care in the world. 

"N-North of here! W-We planned on bringing everyone--"

Chrom grunts in annoyance, just reaching out and grabbing the man by the front of his shirt. He moves through the brush with the man in tow, tossing him onto the ground near sleepy Shepherds. "Make sure he doesn't get away," he orders. The nearby soldiers quickly shake themselves awake, waiting for more commands. "Heavy weaponry on the outer perimeter of the camp, long distance magic and weaponry in the inside. Put up a defensive on the perimeter as well, and make sure no one comes past it."

He's momentarily stilled by the unwavering of Chrom's voice, regardless of the situation. He seems beyond just strong in that moment; he can't really describe it, but Chrom is something else.

The vigilantes all salute him and dash off, probably to get into positions and wake up other soldiers. The ruffian on the grind is stripped of any weapons on hand and Virion is positioned to watch him.

Chrom turns and heads towards the front lines, his eyebrows creased together. He follows a bit behind, unsure if he was of any use or need anymore.

"Thank you," Chrom says suddenly. He starts, looking at to the side, at Maribelle and Lissa because _what is he doing talking to me when there's people nearby?_  But they don't turn a head or even make a notion of acknowledgement.

"It's… no problem," he finished awkwardly. He wasn't really expecting much of a thanks. At all.

"No, really. You've just pretty much saved all of us." Chrom looks over his shoulder to him. He grins in that moment just as shouts of battle begin to rise. "So, really, thank you."

 

\--

 

Things have been getting better.

The activity of pitiful battles along the borders of Ylisse and Plegian has dropped gradually-- what was one an adventure to the border every handful of days dwindled down to once every few weeks. The Shepherds have been celebrating nonstop since. 

Chrom's lifted his suspicious of him ever since he warned them of the ambush-- apparently it was enough for him to try and save the whole group to win Chrom's trust. It's like a _blessing_ to have Chrom not want to wring his neck at every moment. He's even let him linger around when he does tactics in the ungodly hours of night. He-- maybe-- maybe he can call him a friend?

It's… it's like he's actually existing instead of just observing.

Today is bright. A few measly clouds are in the sky, providing just seconds of shade whenever they pass the sun. It's not awfully hot out and there's a nice summer breeze that keeps it from getting too sweltering. It's a great day to be outside.

So, of course, Vaike had dragged Chrom and a few others outside to spar. They've been at it for a good half hour-- it's kind of like a mob of people sparring more than anything. Nearly all of them have a sheen of sweat on their skin, but they're all laughing and enjoying themselves. 

He's situated nearby Lissa and Sumia, who weren't up for sparring all that much but came outside regardless. Lissa sits daintily in a patch of clovers, picking through them as if searching for something. Sumia, on the other hand, is watching the sparring matches before her with a small interest. 

"Sumia! Have you ever found a four-leaf clover before?" Lissa asks suddenly, looking up to the other brightly. "Emmeryn use to be able to find them so easily! And out of the blue, too! We'd be having a picnic and boom! she's got one," Lissa scrunches up her nose at the thought, with a envy that's not malicious. Sumia blinks and snorts at her.

"That's what you're doing? I was sure you were trying to find bugs."

 _"No way!_ Sumia, do you even know me at _all?"_ Lissa squawks, giving her a bewildered look.

Sumia grins at her, "but, no, I've never found one before." 

Lissa immediately brightens up at the words. "Then, then can you help me find one? There's apparently one in every clover patch-- think of how _lucky_ we'd be to find one!" 

It's amusing to see Lissa shuffle around for Sumia to come and help her. They might look fairly strange if someone didn't know what they were doing, but it’s amusing nonetheless. He drops gently to the grass, curiously peering down to the clovers as well. He's never heard of searching for four leaf clovers before. Maybe it's just something for children…?

But without noticing, he's drawing into looking for one as well. It's a bit childish, but it's passing time. 

Lissa gets up to crawl over to a different section of the patch when she halts suddenly as she rises. Sumia looks up, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

A smile breaks out on Lissa's face as she moves towards the trees nearby. "Look! It's some birds nesting!" she whisper shouts, motioning upwards to a tree branch.

And yes, there's a nest of birds situated in-between a few branches. Baby birds chirp quietly and Lissa squeals, "They're so cute!" Sumia rises from the ground and steps up beside the younger, looking up with interest. 

"I think those are robins. I don't think those were common around here," she says.

Something like a throb of pain goes through him-- It's not really pain that he feels, but maybe… maybe it's a hit of melancholy, of remembrance. He appears at their side, gazing up at the birds as well. They chirp and maybe it's his imagination, but one turns to him and chirps at him. 

Yep, that's definitely the feeling of a heavy memory tugging at his heart. It feels like his heart-- if he's got one, anymore-- is squeezing. The birds… or the bird's name?… whatever it is, it's _familiar._

Lissa says something that doesn't reach his ears and then the two of them turn back towards the clover patch. He remains, looking at the birds as if they had all the answers he needed. They probably do, actually; if they're giving him a hint of familiarity when he hasn't seen them before the day he woke up in that field, then they've got something to do with his past.

But he's genuinely never seen the birds before, so it's probably the name that's familiar. 

_Maybe… maybe it's mine? My name?_

Robin.

A piece of him suddenly feels in place.

 

\--

 

Sometimes when he closes his eyes, he sees blood.

It's more of just brief flashes of red that are a bit too dark of a red to be the back of his eyelids. Sometimes it's just the color, sometimes its actual pictures of streams leaking down his vision. It terrified him when it first happened. 

But who is he meant to _tell?_ Chrom? What would the prince have to do with it?

Robin just ignores it whenever it happens.

 

\--

 

Robin does not like this. Not one bit.

The air is filled with sand particles whenever a breeze goes by-- he's beginning to associate sand with a negative connotation. Especially _now._

Maribelle looks thoroughly irritated by the Plegian holding her in place. She looks like she wants to start pummeling him, but since she's restrained, she cannot. Gangrel also likes dissing her when he's only a few feet away from her, and if she weren't restrained, he's sure Gangrel would have a parasol shoved through his neck. 

Gangrel is ridiculous. He's a fool's excuse for a ruler-- he's insulting Emmeryn as if she were to be worse than him, but he's only blind. He expects ridiculous things from her, even straight up demands her to give him something that's rightfully hers. 

He can see Chrom's grip grow more and more strained on Falchion's hilt. 

Frederick moves and keeps Chrom in his place before he does something rash-- Robin quietly thanks him for that. Soon enough one thing leads to another and a barbarian is lumbering his way towards Emmeryn. Robin takes a useless step forward, but someone else is already on the move--

Chrom cuts him down without hesitance, spitting out, "Take a step closer, and then _you'll_ end up like him!"

Gangrel howls with a wicked laughter, shrieking, "That's a war declaration if I've ever heard one! Say goodbye, little prince!"

Then the Plegian army is pouring down the hill side. Chrom shouts orders for Maribelle to be rescued, but Ricken was on it before he even mentioned it. Then Emmeryn is escorted to safety. And once he gets through that, they _charge._

Robin's seen a lot of battles since he started following the Shepherds, but this fight is a lot more chaotic. The vigilantes fight with more vigor, like they are throwing the frustrations built up from hearing Gangrel speak onto their opponent. They make way up the rocky terrain, making way up to where Gangrel is, horse mounted, on the very top.

It's not uncommon, but Robin feels useless watching from the sidelines. Sure, he's a ghost, and sure, he doesn't have much of a clue how he could fight, but he's itching to do _something._ Especially against that  _king--_ he doesn't exactly  _belong_ to Ylisse, but--

He turns and spies a tome resting innocently beside him.  _There._

He looks quickly to see if anyone's around him. It's clear, so he surges for the book. His fingers initially pass through the book. Scowling, he tries again. They hold. 

The tome itself isn't heavy, but it keeps slipping in his hands. He does, however, manage to lift it off the ground. 

Robin struggles to tune out the battle around him, staring intently at the tome. He's found that focusing on something makes it easier to touch. The gold engravings on the cover show it’s a tome that wields electrical magic. It gleams in the sun, and he can feel the electricity buzzing beneath his fingertips. The book feels more solid in his hands as he focuses on its details. 

Now, how could he help? Attacking just anyone would be risky, and he doesn't know if his aim will be good and he can't afford to accidentally strike a Shepherd. He glances up briefly, eyes darting around for a target with none of his allies in the way.

The only one is Gangrel.

Robin returns his attention to the tome and begins to float up. He sticks close to land and far from any of the real fighting because it's going to be unbelievably strange to see a tome floating in air. It's difficult to both focus on the book and float at the same time, but he does it. So he just makes way to the very top, to _Gangrel._

_The bastard deserves it._

He glances up frequently to make sure that he's at the right place before he touches down. Gangrel, of course, does not notice. Instead, he seems to be sneering at something below him. 

Robin hurriedly flips the book open, feeling the smoothness of the pages and the sparks as he flips through it. He has to do it quickly-- if he's noticed, it's all for _nothing._

He finally flips to the correct page and balances the book in one hand. It's hard to do because he needs to focus _more_ since he's using only one hand. Robin looks up to Gangrel and starts when he sees Chrom a few strides away, parrying barbarians. 

 _This is his chance._ He swallows thickly, raising a shaky hand out in the direction of Gangrel. Magic zaps in his fingertips and he breathes in deeply. 

Just as he speaks the word to cast the magic, Chrom surges towards Gangrel, determined.

Robin falters but an explosive wave of magic washes through him, starting from his hand to his toes. A bolt of lightning leaves the tips of his fingers and blasts in the direction of the two. Chrom pulls back from Robin's not sure what, but Gangrel moves right into the path of the lightning bolt and it _hits._

Overwhelming relief goes through him, and so does the book. It thumps soundly against the ground, pages fluttering as Robin suddenly feels... _exhausted._ His vision blurs around the edges immediately and his hand burns. It _burns_ so _much--_

Chrom swivels his head to him, mouth gaping open. He looks ready to say something, but Gangrel turns and sees _him._

Robin freezes. 

"You worthless piece of trash-- _how dare you!"_ Gangrel screeches, clasping the wound as blood leaks between his fingers. 

The words don't register in his mind because all that's in it is _he can see me he can see me he can see me._

In fact, not much registers after it. Suddenly Gangrel is gone and Chrom is in front of him, a look of concern twisting his features. His mind reels violently.

"Are you alright?"

 _Is he?_ He doesn't know himself.

"He-- he could--" He breathes, air suddenly too much for him. He looks down to his trembling hands. The one wielding the tome is literally steaming. He can barely curl his fingers. When was the last time he felt  _pain--?_

 _"I know."_ Chrom spits the words as if they're awful to taste. _"Are you alright?"_

"I--" _no, i'm not, my hand feels like it’s going to melt off my wrist and everything is meshing together and i haven't felt this fucking exhausted before,_ "--I will be, I think…" He then finds himself explaining, "I n-needed to know if I could use magic and-- it seemed like a good time--"

"A good time to scare the _shit_ out of me," Chrom cuts in sharply. There's an odd mix of concern and irritation in his voice that Robin can barely note. "Go-- go head back to the healers and rest. Go somewhere out of this place. _Don't_ try to use magic again."

That, at least, is solid in his mind. He nods, trying to clear his head of the _exhaustion_ clouding it. 

 

\--

 

After spending days lounging about in Chrom's room, it’s nice to be out and about the garrison again.

Ever since the battle with Gangrel, he hasn't felt like moving around much. It’s like he felt tired, but was wide awake the whole time. His hand no longer hurts and he read tomes while trying to get off this ride of exhaustion. But after a while, he was tired of re-reading the same tomes and texts and he needed a change of scenery. 

It’s a _bit_ ridiculous, but being in the mess hall with all the Shepherds is like a breath of fresh air. It's so much more bright and energetic than being in the same room for days on end. Robin relishes in the loudness and banter of the vigilantes for once.

He floats around them, narrowly avoiding broad swings of an arm or running into anyone. He doesn't like fazing through people-- it’s a strange feeling on both ends, and it's just odd to think about. 

There's a loud burst of laughter from a nearby table and Robin looks to see Sully, Vaike, Sumia, and, of all things, _Chrom_ sitting there. A few drinks are on the table and they occasionally take a swing of their own while Vaike tells an exaggerated tale of something. Sully says a snide remark, and Chrom lets out a clear and loud laugh.

It's so, _so_ dumb, but Robin grins at them. They really seem to be enjoying themselves, even as Sully whacks Vaike on the head for something he said. 

It makes him feel lost.

Chrom hasn't noticed him, which he's grateful for. Because his face and stomach is dropping and a unwanted feeling of being alone floods him.

 _Stop it,_ he thinks forcefully, turning away, _Even after you've begun to find your place, you're being a wretch again. There's no reason for you to feel like this, you idiot._

They-- they're just so _close_ , so _tightly knit_ \-- they know each others backstories, know what each other likes and dislikes, _they--_ and _he--_ he only knows his name and that no one knows he's even _there--_

He wants to be there, laughing at that story Vaike's telling and taking a swig of a drink. He wants to try some of Sumia's pie, to try Frederick's cooking. To read and practice magic with Miriel or Ricken, to--

Would he even _belong_ there? Would he, a memoryless, snide tactician, belong among a bunch of warriors that only look towards the future with positivity?

He needs to get out of here.

He darts away, trying to press down on the feeling building in his gut. _Why-- I can't believe myself-- I thought I was done with this stupid feeling--_

It's not.

 

\--

 

One time, he closed his eyes and heard a raging fire.

It had startled him so badly he flipped out of the chair he was in. The book in his hands dropped through his thighs from the lack of attention, but it was the last thing on his mind. His throat tightened up quickly and he _wheezed_ instead of breathing.

The crackling of the violent fire he briefly saw is still lingering in his ears. He rubs at them viciously as if it would help diminish the noise. His-- his hands are shaking. They're cold against his ears, which helps pulling him back to reality. 

He finally realizes he's fazing through the arm of the chair while trying to lean against it for support. The text he was reading rests a few feet away, splayed open from dropping off the chair. He winces quietly-- hopefully that hadn't made a loud noise.

But… the red of the fire is leaving an afterimage in his eyes. And-- since when could he have _auditory_ hallucinations? 

It doesn't help settle his stomach anymore.

Robin moves to gather the book up before someone comes by. He wonders if there's a meaning behind what he's been seeing now.

 

\--

 

Once again, they're in the desert.

Robin swears he's going to see an afterimage of the endless plains of just sand for the rest of his life.

If there's one thing he doesn't get about the Shepherds, it's that they can stand going through this weather decked out in armor. _Sure_ , he's the one wearing a cloak that's fit for trudging through snow, but _he's a ghost._ He's just surprised someone like Frederick or Kellam haven't dropped because of heat stroke.

They've been moving through the golden sands for what seems like hours. Chrom's too close to other people for him to talk to, so he's tried to find something to do for the last half hour. He's thought that maybe Miriel would have a book cracked open in front of her, trying to decipher it, but she's not. The idle chat between the soldiers is uninteresting to him, and now he's turned to Stahl's horse for aid.

Stahl's horse knickers as he approaches, stretching out its neck to him. Stahl himself is unaware of what's got his horse's attention. Robin smiles at the horse. Neither he or Chrom understands how animals can tell he's there. Maybe they're just able to sense these things better than humans are? _Who knows._ But it gives him something to mess with.

It makes a pleased noise when he rubs its head, making it pause in its trek. A few people behind Stahl call out in annoyance, wondering why they've stopped, but all Stahl can do is just wonder as well. 

"--signs of troops?" Robin just barely picks up on what Chrom is saying. He looks over accordingly, seeing what looks like ruins of a village in the distance. He pats the horse on the head as a goodbye before heading towards Chrom and Frederick.

"Not that I can see, but it would be best if we put up a perimeter in case they do come filing in," Frederick says on horseback. His eyes narrow to the distance. It's maybe an unnecessary caution-- they  _are_ in a frontier and scouts haven't reported anything. It's not like he can say that, so he guesses it'll be fine.

Robin falls into step beside Chrom, frowning at the ruins. He wasn't exactly filled in on why they were heading there, but they hadn't really had the chance to speak otherwise.

They pass what seems like long-destroyed gates as they enter the ruins. He doesn't have a good feeling about this place. Not only because they're in the desert, but the atmosphere is just… _off._ The air is tense and no one dares to speak--  they might be silent because of reverence for the structures that look as old as dirt, but it's not settling his anxiety.

Chrom sends off a few soldiers as scouts before he and Frederick head off to the only building that seems to be somewhat intact. Everything in this place have seen a fair share of erosion and sandstorms, nearly rendering everything to just bits and pieces.

There isn't much to look at in the building (if you would _call_ it that-- there's only a corner of it left with a collapsed wooden structure with what looks like books on it). Robin moves towards the scrapes of nearly crumbled paper, peering at them in wonder. 

"What do you think the Plegians would need from this place? There's nothing here. There has to be something they're after-- I can't think of any reason otherwise." Chrom speaks, making Robin look up. He looks uninterested in the ruins and maybe a bit agitated at the initial lack of anything useful. Frederick scowls.

"If there was something they needed, they've probably taken it already. Whatever tracks they left are most likely covered up from the sand gusts." Frederick says solemnly. 

"That's true. It just makes me wonder what they wanted." Chrom sighs, finally finding nothing of valuable information in the ruins. He steps towards the others when a particularly powerful gust comes through, disrupting the papers. 

A few pages just disintegrate into nothing, but one stays intact as it flutters to the ground. Something is on it; faded, yes, but there. Robin makes way to it the same time Frederick does.

Frederick plucks it off the ground with more care than Robin thought was possible, holding it up to observe the contents. Frowning, Robin peers over his arm, eyes landing on a drawing.

The back of his hand throbs and he feels himself grow cold.

Even though he's looked at the symbol so often, he feels as if the drawing is completely foreign. The six eyes seem to mock him, eyes curved into sneers. 

His stomach twists and he moves away, because something about it gives him an awful, horrible feeling.

He feels the urge to somehow burn the symbol off his hand.

 

\--

 

 _I'm his enemy_.

Chrom was really _too_ nice. 

_I am his enemy no matter which way you look at it._

It's pitiful that he's putting so much thought into this. Chrom told him, _convinced_ him that he's no longer a Grimleal. But here he is, rotting in his doubts again. (When will he ever learn?)

The starry sky doesn't comfort him this time. He couldn't stand to be in the barracks, somewhere Chrom could find him wallowing in his thoughts. 

He… he needs to leave. He doesn't belong here anymore.

( _did he even belong in the first place?_ )

Was he a murder in his past life? Was he cruel and ruthless? Did he do the things all these other Grimleals do? Did he want the demise of a kingdom where all of his friends reside?

_Chrom is really too nice. I don't deserve to be here anymore._

Something changed when he saw that symbol. It's best he's far from everyone else.

He rises, and with a shuddering breath, begins walking. To somewhere.

 

\--

 

The symbol on his hand flares up in pain frequently.

He keeps moving, though. It's less of him wanting to and more of that he can't really stop walking. If he wasn't a ghost, his feet would be so worn they'd be just bone by now.

 _What was I thinking, too? I'm a ghost. He's not. None of them are. What could I even do? Why did I bother trying to convinced I was_   _needed there when none of them knew I was there? You idiotidiotidiot._

He doesn't put too much thought into it. Now it's just his thoughts mashing together in a mess of misery. _Why_ was he leaving, again?

He's gone across hills and hills and mountains and he might've crossed a desert-- he doesn't remember. He's not really paying attention anymore. 

A dull throb on the back of his hand makes his hand spasm. He clenches his fist although it sends a prickly feeling up his arm. It's annoying and he's getting irritated at himself. He can't think straight, and it's probably because of this  _stupid_ symbol. Why can't he just get his mind off of feeling all dreary and shit and get his thoughts together?

What was he even _thinking?_ He let his emotions make him do something dumb and _now_ he's lost. His fingers dig into his palm, the pins and needles feeling in his arm intensifying until it  _hurts._

A burst of fiery pain goes up his arm. He lets out a noise of pain, finally halting in his march (his feet are still aching to _move--)_. The symbol on the back of his hand is now _glowing,_  of all things. 

Images of fire and six glowing eyes assault his mind, making him topple over. Colors flash under his eyelids. A migraine washes over him as he curls up in pain, clutching his head. Even in the array of images, sounds, he thinks that he's seeing… _something._

He blinks out of consciousness with a roar of fire and some creature he dreads.


End file.
